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Book •?) 

Copyright N ° ^ 

^ opy 3 l 

Copyright dkposit. f 













Barry the Undaunted 





By EARL REED SILVERS 


DICK ARNOLD OF RARITAN COLLEGE 
DICK ARNOLD PLAYS THE GAME 
DICK ARNOLD OF THE VARSITY 
NED BEALS, FRESHMAN 
AT HILLSDALE HIGH 
NED BEALS WORKS HIS WAY 
JACKSON OF HILLSDALE HIGH 
BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 












ANDY CUT DOWN THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM WITH SURPRISING 

QUICKNESS. 

[Page 128] 




Barry the Undaunted 

BY 

EARL REED SILVERS / 

AUTHOR OF “AT HILLSDALE HIGH,” “JACKSON OF HILLSDALE 
HIGH,” “DICK ARNOLD OF RARITAN COLLEGE,’’ ETC. 




D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK :: 1924 :: LONDON 



COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 




Copyright, 1923, 1924, by the Methodist Book Concern 
Copyright, 1923, by the Century Co. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 

APR 12 ’24 

©C1A7778S8 




TO 

THE MEMORY OF MY SON 

TERRILL SILVERS 











CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Barry .i 

II. Bud.21 

III. Andy.35 

IV. The Girls’ Team.45 

V. Opposition.55 

VI. The A. A. Meeting.67 

VII. Bud Smith Takes a Hand.79 

VIII. The Play.95 

IX. Andy Pays Back.108 

X. The Skating Race.120 

XI. Two Setbacks.131 

XII. The Championship.142 

XIII. The Honor Club.. . 153 

XIV. The School City.165 

XV. The Campaign.175 

XVI. The Best Putt.187 

XVII. The Election.200 

XVIII. The Mayor.210 

XIX. The Track Challenge.221 

XX. Track.231 

XXI. The Square Thing.242 

XXII. The Cup.253 



























Barry 

The Undaunted 

CHAPTER I 
BARRY 

W E had been at Camp Pokono for two 
weeks—Barry Browning, Dot Howard, 
Mary Todd, and myself. Directly 
across the lake, surrounded on three sides by towering 
mountains, a group of boys from Cranford High were 
also camping, among them Budd Smith and Andy 
Kirk, our schoolmates and chums. But, naturally, we 
saw the boys only on special occasions; they were too 
busy with their swimming and boating and other things 
to bother about us, and we, on our part, had troubles 
enough of our own. 

But, all in all, we had had a wonderful time at Po¬ 
kono. The majority of the girls were fine in every way 
—lovers of the great outdoors, willing to abide by the 
rules of the camp, and loyal to the director and her as¬ 
sistants. If it had not been for Helen Sommers, 
everything would have been perfect. 

But Helen was, without doubt, just a bit different 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


from the rest of us. All her life, I imagine, she had 
been given her own way, and she was just a bit intoler¬ 
ant of rules and regulations. But, in spite of her atti¬ 
tude, she was one of the most popular girls in camp. 
There was something likeable about her; she was a 
born leader, a fine athlete, and one of the most persua¬ 
sive talkers I have ever heard. She was a good sport, 
too, in many ways; always willing to do things, from 
playing checkers to going on an all-night hike to 
Miller’s Cove. But between her and Barry Browning 
there was a deep-rooted rivalry, as there always is when 
two instinctive leaders find themselves members of a 
small community. 

For a time, however, nothing happened to disturb 
the smooth routine of our days. Barry was a real girl, 
generous to a fault, unquestioningly loyal, a fair oppo¬ 
nent and a firm friend. When, at the end of the third 
week, she was nominated for the captaincy of the 
swimming team, she only smiled quietly and announced 
that, if elected, she would do her very best to uphold the 
honor of Pokono. 

But, we were by no means sure that she would be 
elected; for the other nominee happened to be Helen 
Sommers, and Helen was undoubtedly one of the best 
all-around athletes at camp. Already, she had been 
chosen captain of our baseball team; and she knew that 
if she could win the swimming captaincy in addi¬ 
tion, she would be practically assured of the Camp 
Leadership. 


2 



BARRY 


That leadership was something which most of us 
regarded as impossible of attainment. Every summer, 
at the end of the season, it was the custom to vote for 
the girl who had done the most for Pokono; and this 
girl was designated as Camp Leader and presented with 
a silver loving cup. Helen, we had learned, had just 
missed out during the preceding year, but that initial 
failure had only served to quicken her ambition and 
strengthen her desire to win the honor on her second 
trial. Naturally, she was keen for the swimming 
captaincy. 

As the time of the election drew near, word was 
brought to Barry that Helen was soliciting votes. 
That, of course, was not at all the thing to do, and 
when Barry heard about it her eyes grew troubled. 

“If I were you,” Mary Todd told her, “I’d speak to 
Miss Carson about it.” 

Miss Carson was director of the camp and would 
have disqualified Helen if she had learned of what was 
being done. But Barry had no intention of “squeal¬ 
ing” ; that was not her way. 

“No matter what Helen does,” she said, “we’ll play 
the game fairly.” 

But on the following Saturday, when Andy and 
Budd paddled over from Sunset Camp, Barry men¬ 
tioned the matter to them. 

“I’d like very much to be captain of the swimming 
team,” she admitted frankly, “but it looks now as if 
I’m going to be beaten.” 


3 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“We’re never licked in anything,” Andy told her, 
“until the last gun is fired. And if Helen Sommers is 
going after votes, the thing for you to do is to go after 
them, too.” 

But Budd Smith thought differently. 

“Just because the other fellow acts like a poor sport 
isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t play the game,” he 
declared bluntly. “Let Helen go ahead, Barry; and 
if she gets any satisfaction out of winning dishonestly, 
why—you should worry.” 

Andy argued for a while; he was a good talker and 
liked nothing better than a hard fight; but in the end 
Barry took Budd’s advice. Even though her hopes 
of being elected had gone a-glimmering, she refused 
absolutely to ask for a single vote. And the rest of us 
expected her to be beaten. 

But, strangely, when the results of the election were 
announced, it was found that Barry had been chosen 
by a vote of sixty-two to forty-four; and, although 
Helen offered the usual formal congratulations, there 
was just a trace of insincerity in her words and a hint 
of resentment in her eyes. 

But Barry, accepting the verdict modestly, ex¬ 
pressed her gratitude at the confidence imposed in her 
and called a meeting of all swimming candidates. 

“Girls,” she said, her blue eyes grave, “I have, of 
course, only been here for a short time, but I think 
that, even in these past few weeks, I have absorbed the 
spirit and ideals of the camp. Pokono, as I see it, 
4 



BARRY 


is like a school, demanding our loyalty and expect¬ 
ing it. And just as all of us would give the best 
that we have for our school, so, too, we should be 
willing to sacrifice our own inclination and desires for 
the good of the camp. That’s right, isn’t it?” 

Anne Ackley, one of the older girls who sat near by, 
nodded seriously. 

‘‘Yes,” she answered, “you’re right, Barry.” 

For a moment, none of us spoke; and then Barry 
cleared her throat huskily. 

“Most of the candidates are here now,” she an¬ 
nounced, “and I think that this is a good time to de¬ 
cide upon our training rules. We will have definite 
practice three times a week from the camp float, and 
—and I am going to expect all of you to observe 
strict rules of training.” 

“Just what are those rules?” Helen Sommers asked 
curiously. 

“No pastry at dining hall,” Barry answered; “no 
absences from practice without a suitable excuse, and 
no parties or visits of any kind on the night before 
a meet.” 

The rest of us nodded in agreement, although Helen 
only smiled rather cynically. 

“I think it would be a fine thing,” Anne Ackley 
suggested, “if we should adopt the Honor System for 
the swimming team.” 

“What’s that?” some one asked. 

“That we pledge our word now to abide by the rules 

5 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


of training and to work for the success of the team in 
every way.” 

“But what if some one should break a rule?” Helen 
inquired. 

“In that case, if there should be such a case, the 
penalty would be imposed by the captain.” 

“I’m for it,” Dot Howard declared eagerly. “And 
I move that the swimming team adopt the Honor 
System.” 

“Second the motion!” 

Barry’s eyes were shining. 

“All in favor will signify in the usual way.” 

A chorus of “ayes” swept across the dock. 

“Opposed?” 

There was no negative vote, although Helen Som¬ 
mers stirred restlessly. 

“I think,” she said, “that you’re making a whole 
lot out of nothing.” 

But Barry, choosing to ignore her, turned to the 
other members of the squad. 

“I’m sure that now we shall be able to keep our 
slate clean,” she announced. “And if we work hard 
every day and give the best that we have, we ought 
to finish the season without a defeat.” 

It appeared, as the season advanced, as if Barry’s 
prediction would prove to be correct. Two weeks 
after our organization meeting, we won from Twilight 
Camp without much difficulty; and ten days later, due 
to the excellent swimming of Barry and Helen Som- 
6 



BARRY 


mers, we managed to defeat the Glendale team by a 
margin of two points. But we had still to meet our 
closest and most formidable rival; and as the Sun¬ 
shine Camp had already won its two preceding con¬ 
tests, the championship of the lake lay in the bal¬ 
ance. 

It was on this championship that Barry had set 
her heart. Prospects for victory were bright; the 
members of the team had worked hard and conscien¬ 
tiously, and we looked forward with unconcealed 
eagerness to the afternoon when we would face our 
final test. 

On Wednesday, however, the manager of the Sun¬ 
shine team drove over to Pokono and requested that 
we advance the time of the meet to Friday. There 
were no objections, so far as we could see, and Barry 
agreed readily. At the twilight mass meeting that 
evening, Miss Carson, beloved director of the camp, 
announced the change in schedule. 

“We want, of course, to win on Friday,” she said 
quietly, “and our captain tells us that our chances of 
success are more than even. But this thing we must 
also keep in mind; that it is no disgrace to lose if we 
have done our best, and that good sportsmanship and 
fair competition is even more to be desired than vic¬ 
tory. For twenty years now, I have been director of 
Camp Pokono; I have molded its spirit and established 
its traditions; and never in that long span of time have 
my girls been false to its ideals. I know that you 
7 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


will do your best to-morrow, and that whatever the 
outcome, the spirit of the camp will rise supreme. ,, 

It wasn’t a very long speech, but it gave us all some¬ 
thing to think about. Barry, I could see, was deeply 
affected; her blue eyes were wide open and thoughtful, 
and her usually smiling lips were set tight in a line of 
grim determination. I think that at that moment 
Barry would have made any sacrifice whatever to 
maintain the ideals of the camp as Miss Carson had 
stated them. 

After we had finished our singing and had given 
several “long yells” for the swimming team, the rest 
of the girls went back to the shacks, while the members 
of the squad waited. 

“I suppose it’s hardly necessary,” Barry told us, “to 
suggest that we all get to bed early to-morrow and try 
not to worry about the meet. If each of us does her 
best, we are fairly sure of winning.” 

“How are you going to enter us ?” one of the team 
wanted to know. 

“Elsie Chase and I will go in the fifty-yard dash,” 
Barry explained. “Helen and Janette Lindsay in the 
hundred, Jean and Anne Ackley in the fancy dive, 
Helen in the plunge, and the usual four in the relay.” 

“And you think that we can beat them?” 

“Yes, as far as we can figure out, the score ought to 
be about twenty-six to fourteen.” 

“It will be easy,” Helen Sommers declared. Then 
she looked up at Barry almost mockingly. “What was 
8 



BARRY 


that you said,” she asked evenly, “about getting to bed 
early to-morrow night ?” 

“I said,” Barry answered quietly, “that we all ought 
to turn in early. No visiting in other shacks or any¬ 
thing like that.” 

Helen smiled, but the mockery was still in her eyes. 

“What would happen,” she asked, “if one of us 
should decide to go to Woodville Thursday night?” 

Barry’s eyes opened in frank surprise. 

“No one would do that,” she answered quietly. 

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Barry,” Helen spoke ar¬ 
rogantly, and the mocking smile still played about her 
lips. 

“What do you mean?” Barry asked her. 

“It so happens,” Helen explained, “that I have been 
planning for several days to attend the Grange meeting 
at Woodville to-morrow night.” 

There followed a moment of rather awkward silence. 

“Have you been given permission?” Barry asked 
finally. 

“Yes.” 

“But that was before we knew the meeting was go¬ 
ing to be held on Friday.” 

“Yes.” 

“Surely, you wouldn’t go now,” Anne Ackley put in. 

“Why not ?” There was a stubborn light in Helen’s 
eyes and her lips were resolute. 

“Because,” Anne answered quietly, “we have all 
pledged our word to abide by the rules of training, 
9 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


and one of those rules is that we remain in camp on 
the night before a meet.” 

“It's the Honor System,” Barry said. 

But Helen only smiled indifferently. 

“Really, it won’t make any difference,” she argued. 
“I’ll be home before twelve, and you needn’t worry 
about my winning a race or two.” 

“It isn’t that we’re worrying about,” Barry told her. 
For a moment, the team captain looked around help¬ 
lessly, then her voice softened. “You remember, don’t 
you, Helen,” she asked, “what Miss Carson said to¬ 
night about the spirit of the camp and its traditions?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got to do with it.” 

“If one of the members of the swimming team 
breaks the Honor System,” Barry said, “it means that 
the spirit of the camp will be an empty thing.” 

Helen grinned defiantly. 

“The camp be hanged!” she declared bluntly. “I’m 
going, and that’s all there is to it.” 

Two or three of the girls stirred restlessly, and Anne 
Ackley’s eyes were sober. 

“If you go, Helen,” Anne announced quietly, “you 
will be breaking the pledge which the team has given.” 

“I’m going,” Helen maintained stubbornly. 

“In that case,” Anne told her, “it’s up to the 
captain.” 

We turned then to Barry, who stood before us in 
the gathering twilight. For a moment she waited, 
and in the tense silence which ensued there was no one 


io 



BARRY 


of us who did not recognize the crisis she was facing. 
For if she debarred Helen from competing against 
Sunshine, we would lose the meet; if she ignored 
Helen’s broken pledge, we would win. It was honor 
against victory—and Barry alone could decide. 

f Tm sorry,” she said finally, and there was a huski¬ 
ness to her voice which disclosed the strain under 
which she was speaking, ‘‘but if you go to Woodville 
to-morrow night, Helen, you—you can’t take part in 
the Sunshine meet.” 

The eyes of the other girl narrowed. 

“If I don’t swim,” she said bluntly, “Pokono will be 
beaten.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’ll keep me off just the same?” 

“Yes; there isn’t anything else we can do.” 

Two bright spots of crimson crept into Helen’s face. 

“All right,” she announced defiantly, “keep me off 
then. I’m going to Woodville.” 

“I’m sorry,” Barry said again. 

But Helen, without a word, turned and walked de¬ 
fiantly toward the dimly outlined buildings on the hill. 

Throughout the next day, we hoped that she would 
not make good her boast to attend the Grange meeting; 
but directly after supper, she left for town in company 
of three of her closest friends. After she had gone, 
Barry joined Dot Howard and me before the open flap 
of our tent and gazed with brooding eyes into the 
flames of a tiny fire we had lighted. 

ii 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“It looks now,” she said, “as if Sunshine will beat 
us to-morrow. Without Helen, we can’t get better 
than second in the hundred-yard swim, and we may not 
place at all in the plunge. And that will make a dif¬ 
ference of ten points in the total score.” 

“What are we going to do about it ?” Dot asked. 

“I’ll go in the hundred myself,” Barry answered, 
“and enter Virginia Hyland in the plunge.” 

“You can’t very well do that,” I protested. “You’re 
in the fifty and relay already.” 

“It’s our only hope,” Barry told us. 

We were silent for a time. No one had mentioned 
it as yet, but we were all wondering how Barry’s action 
in dropping one of our star swimmers would affect the 
election for Camp Leader. The other girls had, of 
course, heard of our adoption of the Honor System; 
but they did not know very much about it, and we 
could hardly expect them to realize how sacred it had 
become to those of us who had given our pledge to sup¬ 
port the team. 

It would not be very hard for Helen to create a 
feeling that Barry had dropped her for personal 
reasons; she was a smooth and convincing talker, and 
not lacking in followers. And if Sunshine should de¬ 
feat us, in the reaction following defeat, the members 
of the camp would naturally be inclined to lay the 
blame at Barry’s door. Unless, of course, the spirit 
and the traditions of which Miss Carson had spoken 
were strong enough to triumph over the desire for 
12 



BARRY 


victory. But we did not know; and our hearts ached 
for Barry. 

So the matter rested until Friday afternoon, when 
the Sunshine Camp descended upon us in a body, com¬ 
ing mostly by launch and canoe and acting generally 
as if the thought of defeat had never entered their 
heads. Pokono was, of course, out in force, and 
shortly before the meet was scheduled to begin, the 
girls gathered on the broad wooden float fastened 
parallel to the shore and sent the “long locomotive.” 
yell ringing across the water. The Sunshine rooters 
answered from their places on the bank, and we all 
waited eagerly while the two captains conferred with 
the referee. 

It took quite a time to arrange the details; but 
finally it was decided that the fifty-yard dash should 
come first, with the plunge second, the relay third, the 
dive fourth, and the hundred last. Barry had held 
out for that arrangement because she was planning to 
swim in three races and needed to rest between events. 

As she took her place beside Elsie Chase and the 
two Sunshine entries for the first race, her face was 
paler than usual, but her eyes were shining and her 
lips were set determinedly. At the command of the 
cheer leader, the Pokono rooters gave her a “short 
yell”; and even though Helen Sommers and a few of 
the others were silent, there was no hint of discourage¬ 
ment or portending defeat in the cheer. 

Barry nodded in pleased acknowledgment, and at the 
13 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


sound of the gun she was first off, striking the water 
cleanly and coming to the surface a clear yard in 
the lead. The six-beat crawl which she had learned 
since coming to camp increased her advantage to the 
first turn; and on the homeward lap she continued her 
fast pace and won with seven feet to spare. The time, 
thirty-two seconds, was unusually good; and when 
Barry climbed to the dock after the finish, the girls on 
the float cheered even more heartily than before. One 
of the Sunshine entries had just beaten Elsie Chase for 
second place; but at least we were in the lead and our 
followers were satisfied. 

The members of the team knew, however, that our 
joy would be short-lived, for the next event was the 
plunge for distance, and Virginia Hyland, our last- 
minute entry, was expected to be hopelessly outclassed. 
If Helen Sommers had not been debarred, we would 
have won easily; but the captain of the team had for¬ 
bidden Helen to take part, and defeat loomed omi¬ 
nously before us. But just before the three contest¬ 
ants, two from Sunshine and one from Pokono, 
gathered round the referee for instructions, Helen her¬ 
self, attired in a bathing suit, walked out upon the 
dock and confronted Barry. 

“If you say the word/’ she announced evenly, “I’m 
ready to go in and win. How about it ?” 

Without an instant’s hesitation, Barry shook her 
head. 

“No,” she answered, “you’re out of it, Helen.” 

14 



BARRY 


The other girl’s eyes opened wide. 

“And you’d lose the meet rather than give me a 
chance?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Barry told her. “We’d lose the meet rather 
than make a mockery of the Honor System.” 

Helen glanced over at the watching girls on the 
float, as if to ask openly for their support; but not one 
of them said a word, and after a moment Helen 
shrugged her shoulders and turned away. 

“If you’re ready, we’ll start the plunge,” the referee 
suggested. 

But after Virginia Hyland’s first trial, we knew that 
our worst fears would be realized, for the Pokono 
entry covered less than thirty-three feet, and was hope¬ 
lessly out of it. We had thought that possibly she 
might get a second place, but both of the Sunshine en¬ 
tries were superior, and Virginia was not able to score 
a single point. That made the count eleven to three 
in favor of the visitors, and our hopes of victory went 
a-glimmering. 

“If Helen Sommers had only been in,” Elsie Chase 
announced lifelessly, “we would have won the plunge 
without any trouble at all.” 

No one answered. You could have cut the gloom 
around the float with a knife, and the Pokono girls at 
the side of the outdoor pool were gloomily silent. 
Barry, regarding them through half-closed eyes, shut 
her lips determinedly and turned to the members of 
the team. 


15 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Girls,” she announced huskily, “there are three 
more events and we are not beaten yet. Let’s give 
the best that we have!” 

Something of her own undaunted spirit communi¬ 
cated itself to us; and when the referee called the two 
relay teams together, we nodded impatiently at his 
instructions and awaited eagerly the start of the race. 

“Let’s go!” some one said. 

It had been agreed that the relay would count eight 
points for the winner and nothing for the loser, and 
we knew that if we could finish first we would jump 
into the lead again. Janette Lindsay, first off for 
Pokono, swam her fifty yards in close to record time 
and gave Elsie Chase a two-yard advantage. Elsie 
lost most of it, but I managed to finish ahead on the 
third lap, and Barry easily outdistanced her own per¬ 
sonal opponent. That meant that the score was thir¬ 
teen to eleven in favor of Pokono; and if we could win 
a first in one of the two remaining events, the victory 
would be ours. 

But in the fancy dive, which followed, both Anne 
Ackley and I were out-classed by one of the Sunshine 
entries; and although I gave all that I had, knowing 
what it might mean to Barry, the best that I could win 
was a second place; and that made the score all even 
again. Only the one-hundred-yard dash remained. 

Originally, it had been planned to use Helen Som¬ 
mers in this event; but Helen was definitely out, and 
Barry had announced that she herself would be one of 
16 



BARRY 


the Pokono entries. The Physical Director had given 
her consent, and Barry, if she had been fresh, could 
probably have won without much difficulty. But she 
had already swum in two races, and although her 
strength and stamina were unquestioned, we were 
frankly doubtful of the outcome. 

Helen Sommers, still wearing her bathing suit, 
watched curiously as the four contestants waited on 
the float for the word of the referee. It seemed to 
me that, for the first time, she was beginning to realize 
that she had done a foolish thing in breaking the rules 
of the camp, for the jaunty look had gone from her 
face, and her eyes were questioning. But Barry never 
so much as glanced in her direction; and at the word 
of the official, the Pokono captain took her place at 
the edge of the dock and waited tensely for the 
gun. 

“Oh, you Barry!” one of the rooters called. 

But if Barry heard, she gave no indication of it; 
and at the sound of the gun, she dove cleanly into the 
water and began her arduous journey to the far end 
of the pool. At the turn, she was slightly in the lead, 
swimming strongly and with confidence; and when she 
touched the second lap, she had increased the advan¬ 
tage by another yard or two. 

The race, however, was only half over, and one of 
the Sunshine entries had hung grimly to the leader. 
Before the third lap was completed, she had drawn al¬ 
most even with Barry, and as they turned again to 
1 7 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


fight their way to the finish, hardly a foot separated 
the two swimmers. 

Then followed one of the closest and most exciting 
races that the camp had ever known. The Sunshine 
girl increased her pace noticeably; and Barry, accept¬ 
ing the challenge, matched her stroke for stroke. For 
fifteen yards, neither gained an inch, and then Barry’s 
efforts in the fifty-yard dash and the relay began to 
tell. Gradually, but surely, she fell behind; her stroke 
grew shorter, her flailing arms seemed to have lost 
their power. And although she fought courageously 
to the very end, her strength was not quite equal to 
the task, and she lost the victory by a fraction of a 
second. 

For a minute or so, she clung weakly to the edge of 
the dock, while the Sunshine rooters went into ecsta¬ 
sies of delight and our own girls faced the surety of 
defeat in stunned silence. After a time, Mary Todd 
and I reached down and lifted Barry out of the water. 
She smiled bravely at us and sank wearily upon the 
damp boards, encircling her knees with her hands and 
trying very hard to take defeat as all good sportsmen 
should—without bitterness. 

And still, the Pokono rooters were silent. 
Strangely, even in that moment of defeat, my thoughts 
went back to the preceding evening when Miss Car- 
son had told us of the spirit of the camp. Her words 
returned to me with startling clarity: “For twenty 
years now I have been director of Camp Pokono; I 
18 




BARRY 


have molded its spirit and established its traditions; 
and never in that long span of time have my girls been 
false to its ideals.” 

It had seemed a splendid thing then, a wonderful 
heritage; but suddenly, as I looked down upon the 
drooping figure of Barry Browning, I began to doubt 
the truth of the director’s statement. For even though 
Barry had stood true to the very ideals which Miss 
Carson had mentioned, her camp mates had not given 
her their support. If she had won, if the team had 
achieved a victory, they would have cheered wildly 
for her. But now, in defeat, they only waited silently 
for the cheers of the rival team to die away. 

“Barry,” I said huskily, sinking down beside her, 
“it doesn’t matter; even if-” 

And then, unexpectedly, a Pokono cheer leader 
raised a megaphone to her lips. 

“A long yell!” she boomed. “A long yell for Cap¬ 
tain Barry Browning!” 

Surprised, Barry glanced up just in time to see the 
girls in the Pokono section rise to their feet. And the 
cheer that followed must certainly have been heard 
at the Sunshine Camp, three miles away. It was a 
cheer of confidence in a leader who had placed honor 
above victory, of challenge in the face of defeat, of 
loyalty to all that the camp had stood for in the past 
twenty years. 

Hearing it, I knew, without question or doubt, that 
Miss Carson had been right. The spirit of Pokono 
19 





BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


had risen, above defeat, had again refused to be false 
to its ideals. And I knew, too, as surely as if the vote 
had already been taken, that the name of the next 
Camp Leader would be Barry Browning, of Cranford 
High. 




CHAPTER II 


BUDD 

I T was the last game of the season, the big game 
with Woodbridge. Almost three months had 
passed since our memorable summer at Camp 
Pokono; we were back at Cranford again, in the midst 
of the varied activities of high-school days. During 
the past week, the football team had been practicing 
faithfully under the direction of Captain Andy Kirk, 
aided and supported by Budd Smith, who played foot¬ 
ball as he did everything else, grimly and tenaciously. 
Real leaders they were; Andy of the flashing eyes, 
eager and unafraid; and Budd, with his honest, homely 
face and heart of gold. 

We hoped to win from Woodbridge, but we were 
not sure. Our team was a good one, one of the best 
we had ever had; but we had lost our chance for the 
County Championship when Plainfield had beaten us 
two weeks before, thirteen to six. We realized, how¬ 
ever, that we could not always win, and we were con¬ 
tent to call the season a success if we could score a 
victory over Woodbridge, our closest rival. So the 
whole school, and half the town, turned out for the 
game. 


21 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


The long wooden stands on both sides of the field 
were filled to overflowing. Six hundred loyal rooters 
had accompanied the neighboring school to Cranford; 
and under the direction of harsh-voiced cheer leaders, 
they sent long, booming yells thundering across the 
field. From our own stands, where Barry Browning 
and the rest of us waited tensely for the game to be¬ 
gin, we yelled back defiantly and confidently. Tom 
Borden, waving a megaphone almost as big as him¬ 
self, urged us to renewed efforts, and we responded 
joyfully, although we knew that on the following day 
we would be so hoarse that we could hardly speak. 
There is nothing like a football game for real “pep” 
and enthusiasm. 

Shortly before two o’clock, the Cranford team 
trotted out upon the field, with Andy in the lead. 
They wore scarlet jerseys and stockings and looked 
heavier than they really were. “Fat” Weaver, our 
varsity center, grasped the ball with chubby hands and 
crouched over it; Hugh Potter, quarterback, rasped 
out his signals, and the team swept forward, with 
Andy carrying the ball. 

“The game’s going to be close,” Barry said, “and 
it seems to me as if our best chance lies in Andy get¬ 
ting away for a long run or two.” 

“Or in Budd plugging the line,” I answered. 

“Yes,” she agreed, “we mustn’t forget Budd.” 

But Andy was really the star of the team. Al¬ 
though he could not run so very fast, he had developed 
22 



BUDD 


a knack of dodging and side-stepping which made him 
hard to tackle, and in a broken field he was something 
of a wonder. Twice during the season he had picked 
his way through opposing teams for touchdowns, and 
it was generally agreed around the school that he was 
the most valuable man on the Cranford squad. 

But Barry and I weren’t quite so sure of that. Even 
though we were girls, we had studied football and we 
felt that we knew something about the game. And it 
seemed to us that Budd Smith was just as valuable a 
man as Andy. He seldom did anything sensational; 
but we noticed that when it was fourth down and a 
yard to go, it was always Budd whom Hugh Potter 
called upon. And, generally, Budd made his distance. 

He never said much during a game; just played with 
all his heart and soul and gave everything that he had 
to the team. Somehow, it seemed to us as if it was 
Budd who held the team together, who kept the rest of 
the players from losing their tempers and going to 
pieces. There was something dependable about him, 
something that inspired both confidence and trust. 

However, Andy was the one who made the long 
runs and received most of the plaudits of the crowd. 
Now, with the Woodbridge game about to begin, it 
was on Andy that the majority of the pupils of the 
school placed their hopes of victory. 

“A long yell,” Tom Borden called. “We want three 
touchdowns, Andy.” 

Cranford winning the toss, elected to receive, and the 
2 3 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


members of the team trotted to their positions, twitch¬ 
ing their fingers nervously and digging their cleated 
shoes into the yielding turf. It is always that way be¬ 
fore a big football game; but when once the whistle 
blows, the boys forget their nervousness and rush into 
the thick of each scrimmage with all the grit and cour¬ 
age they possess. 

This proved to be true in the present instance, for as 
soon as the visiting fullback swung his toe against the 
ball, the Cranford varsity leaped into action. Bill 
Woodruff, receiving the kick-off, sprinted along the 
sidelines for twenty yards before he was tackled, a 
good gain and a fine omen. The Cranford stands 
roared their approval, and Tom Borden did a hand¬ 
spring on the cinder running track. 

On the very next play, Andy Kirk swept around end 
for a clean thirty yards, and it looked then as if the 
game was going to be a walk-away. The whole Cran¬ 
ford cheering section had leaped to their feet, and we 
were too excited even to hear Tom Borden’s joyful 
appeal for a “long locomotive.” 

“Andy, Andy!” we screamed; and “Shrimp” Pren¬ 
tiss, who has a voice like a foghorn, boomed out 
lustily: “Atta-boy, Andy! Atta-boy!” 

But our optimism, it appeared, was a bit premature, 
for on the next three rushes Cranford could not gain 
a single yard. So Andy dropped back amid hushed 
silence and booted the ball to Woodbridge’s fifteen-yard 
line. 


24 



BUDD 


“Now,” Barry said, “we’ll see whether the other 
team’s any good or not.” 

But the visitors, although they outweighed Cranford 
at least five pounds to a man, found our defense too 
strong for them, and, after two attempts to hit the 
line, kicked to the center of the field. Hugh Potter, 
receiving the punt, was downed in his tracks, and the 
Woodbridge stands cheered lustily. 

Throughout the first quarter, neither side was able 
to score. It was old-fashioned football mostly, a stab 
at guard, a dash around end, with only an occasional 
forward pass. And as time went on and the teams 
battled on even terms, it began to look as if victory 
or defeat would depend upon the “breaks” of the 
game. 

“Unless Andy should work loose or we should get 
away with a long forward pass,” Barry said, “there 
won’t be any scoring, Jane.” 

But, it was too early yet to make predictions. 

“Maybe one team or the other will crack before the 
end,” I answered. “The game’s young, Barry.” 

But neither Cranford nor Woodbridge showed any 
signs of breaking when the first period had ended. The 
referee, picking up the ball, moved it across the field, 
while the Cranford players gathered in a circle around 
Andy Kirk and listened to what he was saying. When 
the whistle blew again, they trotted to their places; and 
on the first play, Budd Smith broke through and tackled 
a visiting halfback for a five-yard loss. 

25 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“We’re going now,” some one called. “Good old 
Budd!” 

Woodbridge punted, and Hugh Potter brought the 
ball to the forty-yard line before he was tackled. It 
looked like a good chance to score, and Tom Borden 
shouted excitedly through his megaphone: 

“Touchdown! touchdown!” 

We took up the refrain and sent it ringing across the 
gridiron; and the Cranford team, encouraged by our 
cheering, made a first down in three attempts outside 
of tackle. Twice more, Budd Smith pierced the Wood- 
bridge line; but on the third down, with three yards to 
go, Hugh sent Andy around end, and he was thrown 
for a loss. On the next play, however, Budd plunged 
straight through center for a ten-yard gain, and it was 
first down again, this time on Woodbridge’s eighteen- 
yard line. 

Pandemonium reigned in the Cranford stands. The 
boys threw their hats high in the air, pounded one an¬ 
other on the back, and jumped up and down excitedly 
on the long wooden benches. 

Rah, bow, wow, wow! 

Cranford! 

Team, team, team! 

Andy made three yards outside of tackle, and Budd, 
charging with head down, made five more on a plunge 
through guard. 

“Third down,” the referee rasped, “and two to go.” 

26 



BUDD 


We could hear Hugh Potter’s voice, high-pitched and 
shrill: 

“Eight, seventeen, ten!” 

It was Budd through guard again, and he made it 
with a foot to spare. That gave Cranford a first down 
on the visitors’ eight-yard line. 

The Woodbridge rooters, also on their feet, cheered 
lustily, chanting in rhythmic unison their battle cry: 

Fight, Woodbridge, fight! 

Fight, Woodbridge, fight! 

Team, team, te-am! 

And Woodbridge fought, holding us to three yards 
on two attempts. Barry, beside me on the stands, was 
almost crying with excitement and eagerness. 

“Give it to Budd,” she called pleadingly. “Give it 
to Budd!” 

Hugh snapped out his signals again: 

“Eighteen, twenty-one, three!” 

With lowered head, the ball nestling in his arms, 
Budd charged into the center of the line. The Wood- 
bridge forwards rose to meet him, and for a moment 
there was a surge and a heave of straining bodies. 
Then Budd slipped through and fought his way ahead 
until an opposing halfback crushed him to the ground 
one foot from the last white line. 

It was a fourth down, and twelve inches to go. 
Twelve inches! 

“Touchdown!” we roared. “Touchdown!” 

V 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Silence descended on the field as the two teams waited 
tensely for the snap of the ball. After a moment of 
almost unbearable suspense, the players clashed, and 
Andy Kirk, the ball beneath his arm, dived head fore¬ 
most over the struggling group massed at the goal 
line. There was the sound of a shrill whistle; and 
then the referee threw both hands over his head. 

“Touchdown!” 

Tom Borden, his eyes shining, raised his megaphone 
to his lips. 

“A long yell, ,, he ordered, “for Andy Kirk. And 
make it a good one.” 

But even as I added my own voice to the volume of 
sound, it occurred to me that the yell should really have 
been for Budd. For, although Andy had scored the 
touchdown, it was Budd who had made it possible. 
Somehow, it didn’t seem fair. 

But there was little time to think of such things just 
then. Woodbridge, dismayed by the sudden turn of 
events but by no means discouraged, chose to receive 
the kick-off, and probably because our team was over¬ 
confident on account of the touchdown, their left half¬ 
back ran Andy’s kick to our thirty-yard line before 
Hugh Potter stopped him. 

That put an entirely different outlook upon the game, 
for Andy had missed the goal after touchdown, and 
the score stood only six to nothing in our favor. And 
now, if Woodbridge should score a touchdown and 
count an additional point, they would be in the lead. 

28 



BUDD 


But good fortune was with us, for after they had 
gained five yards in two rushes, the referee’s whistle 
blew, signifying the conclusion of the first half. As 
the teams trotted off the field, we breathed a sigh of in¬ 
finite relief, and settled down to wait until the inter¬ 
mission was ended. 

“We haven’t won yet,” Barry said, “but I think we’re 
going to.” 

Mary Todd, sitting behind us, leaned over and 
touched Barry on the shoulder. 

“I think Andy’s wonderful,” she declared. 

Barry made no answer, but Dot Howard nodded in 
quick agreement. 

“He’ll be a big hero after this,” she announced. 

“But it was Budd,” I protested, “who made most 
of the gains.” 

“Yes,” Dot answered indifferently, “but it was Andy 
who scored the six points.” 

There was no answer to that, so I relapsed into silence. 
During the intermission, we sang our Alma Mater song, 
cheered for the team, for Andy, and for Woodbridge. 
But no one suggested a yell for Budd. It wasn’t fair. 

When finally the two teams trotted out upon the 
field again, we settled down in tense excitement to 
await developments. We were in the lead, to be sure, 
but the game was only half over and we were by no 
means certain of victory. Andy’s kick sailed almost to 
the goal posts, and the Woodbridge fullback was able 
to gain only ten yards before Budd slammed him to the 
29 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


ground. It was a great tackle, and for the first time 
that day Budd was given the school cheer with his 
name on the end. 

The visitors, deciding not to take any chances, punted 
on the first down. The kick was low, and Hugh Pot¬ 
ter, dashing forward, attempted to catch it before it 
struck the turf. But his outstretched hands barely 
grazed it, and the ball, bounding queerly, rolled in the 
direction of our own goal. Hugh, losing his balance, 
stumbled and fell; and a Woodbridge end, running at 
full speed, scooped up the pigskin, and before we re¬ 
alized what had happened, dashed over the remaining 
white lines and deposited it behind our goal. 

We were stunned into silence, while the Woodbridge 
rooters went into ecstasies of joy. The score was a tie 
now, but the visiting players still had a chance to count 
an additional point. Trembling with excitement, we 
leaned forward in our places, while the two teams lined 
up on the five-yard line and the Woodbridge quarter¬ 
back rasped out his signals. 

Andy, his fists clenched, took his place behind our 
left tackle. 

“Hold them, men!” he commanded. “Block that 
kick!” 

The Cranford stands took up the refrain: 

“Block that kick! Block that kick!” 

The Woodbridge quarterback kneeled down about 
six yards in back of the center. 

30 



BUDD 


“A place kick,” Barry whispered. 

The fullback measured the distance to the goal, and 
nodded. The ball was passed straight and true. The 
lines clashed. The fullback took a single step forward 
and his foot thudded against the leather. The ball 
rose quickly, struck the crossbar, bounced high in the 
air, and fell on the far side. 

It was a goal. Woodbridge led, seven to six. 

Tom Borden leaped to his place in front of the stands. 

“A long yell for that team!” he commanded. 

We gave the cheer with all the enthusiasm we could 
muster, but our hearts were heavy with the portent 
of defeat. Only Barry Browning refused to be 
disheartened. 

‘‘We’ll win yet,” she said grimly. 

But, after we had received the kick-off, we could not 
gain. Somehow, the team seemed to have lost its 
punch. The line did not charge with its former power, 
and the Woodbridge defense stopped even Budd with¬ 
out the semblance of a gain. On the fourth down, 
Andy kicked to the center of the field. 

But the visitors, too, had apparently shot their bolt. 
It had been a hard game, and the players were tiring. 
It looked to me as if there would be no further scoring. 

When the third quarter ended with neither side gain¬ 
ing an advantage, I was sure of it. The final period 
began with the ball in Cranford’s possession on our 
fifty-yard line. Hugh Potter, after a brief confer¬ 
ence with Andy and Budd, decided upon an open game. 
3i 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


But Woodbridge was prepared for it, and our forward 
passes were grounded. After three futile attempts, 
Andy kicked. 

We still yelled and cheered, but we were facing the 
probability of defeat. Unless something happened in 
the next few minutes, Cranford would be beaten. 
Woodbridge, holding to their single point advantage, 
elected to play safe, and rushed the ball for three con¬ 
secutive downs. Then they kicked to the center of the 
field, and it was our ball again, with only a short time 
remaining. 

We tried a forward pass which was wild, Budd hit 
the center of the line for three yards, and made four 
more on his second try. It was fourth down, with 
three to go, and Hugh Potter, who alternated with 
Andy in kicking, dropped back for a punt. A number 
of people in the stands, considering the game as good 
as ended, began to file toward the exits. 

Hugh’s kick was high and long. The Woodbridge 
quarterback reached for it, but it slipped through his 
arms and bounded to one side. 

“Fumble!” some one shouted. 

Three men dashed for the bouncing ball. In the 
lead raced Budd Smith, close behind him was a Wood- 
bridge player, and at the visitor’s heels Andy Kirk. 
The stands shrieked. 

With a swift glance over his shoulder, Budd took in 
the situation. He was nearest the ball and by falling 
on it could secure its possession for Cranford. But 
32 




BUDD 


the game was almost ended, and there was probably 
not enough time for a touchdown. Still, he could have 
fallen on the ball and taken a chance on scoring later. 
And if Cranford should score, Budd would be the big 
hero. 

But Budd did not fall on the ball. Instead, he 
wheeled sharply and threw his body against the knees 
of the Woodbridge man. They went down in a heap, 
and Andy, only a step behind, scooped up the pigskin 
and dashed triumphantly across the goal. 

A touchdown for Cranford, and Andy Kirk had 
made it! Beside ourselves with joy and excitement, 
we rushed to the sidelines and yelled thunderously in a 
wild abandon of relief. Two minutes later, when the 
final whistle blew, the boys of the school lifted Andy 
to their shoulders and carried him triumphantly around 
the running track. No one thought of Budd Smith 
and the big thing he had done. No one remembered 
that Budd, sacrificing his own chance for heroism, had 
made a hero of Andy. 

Only Barry and I realized it. We stood at one side 
of the field and watched the beaming Andy wave hap¬ 
pily to his shouting cohorts surrounding him. Budd, 
lost in the shuffle, passed us on the way to the dress¬ 
ing room. Barry halted him. 

“It was you,” she said, “who really won the game 
to-day.” 

But Budd only grinned into her flashing eyes. 

“Forget it,” he answered. “Andy made the touch- 
33 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


downs, Barry, and he deserves all the praise he can get.” 

After he had gone on, Barry turned to me and shook 
her head helplessly. 

‘‘Isn’t that just like Budd?” she asked. 




CHAPTER III 


ANDY 

T HERE was nothing else to do, of course, except 
to hold a big celebration. After Andy Kirk 
had finally escaped from his admirers and 
joined the other players in the dressing room, the high- 
school students remained outside the building, cheering 
and singing, and reviewing the game in minute detail. 
Tom Borden, finding Barry near the front of the 
school, halted eagerly. 

“How about getting the crowd together to-night ?” 
he asked. 

“Fine,” Barry answered. “We’ll meet4iere at seven 
o’clock; you get word to the boys and I’ll let the girls 
know about it.” 

Tom climbed to the balustrade surmounting the front 
porch of the school and held up his hand for silence. 
Then he gave the announcement through his 
megaphone: 

“All the high-school gang are requested to report here 
at seven o’clock to-night. We’re going to celebrate the 
Woodbridge game.” 

A chorus of approval answered him. 

35 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“We’ll be there, all right!” 

“Let’s make it worth while!” 

“Oh, you Tom!” 

Because it was a special occasion, Barry had supper 
with me, but all we could think about, or talk about, 
was the game. The news of our victory had spread 
around town quickly, and my small brother Ted 
was eager to discuss the contest with us from begin¬ 
ning to end. 

“Andy Kirk’s some player, I’ll tell the world,” he de¬ 
clared. “He made that first touchdown in the second 
quarter, and then, toward the end of the game, just 
when it looked as if we were going to get walloped, 
he came through with another. I almost had heart 
failure, though, before he did it.” 

“It was great,” I agreed. 

Barry looked up thoughtfully. 

“What about Budd ?” she asked. “Think he played 
a good game?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ted answered indifferently. “Budd was 
pretty good. But Andy won the game, of course.” 

Barry, I think, would have liked to explain things, 
but she only smiled. Ted was a hero worshiper and 
Andy was his hero, and it would have been cruel to 
disillusion him. On the way to the high school after 
supper, however, Barry mentioned the matter to me. 

“You and I know that it was really Budd who did 
the big thing this afternoon,” she said. “He was near¬ 
est the ball when that fumble was made, and he could 
36 



ANDY 


have fallen on it. But, instead, he put the Woodbridge 
man out of the play, and gave Andy a clear field.” She 
was silent for a moment. *‘1 wonder if Andy knows 
just what happened.” 

“Even if he did,” I told her, “I doubt whether he’d 
say anything. Andy likes to be in the limelight, you 
know.” 

“Yes, I know.” Barry’s face was troubled. “But 
I don’t think,” she announced slowly, “that he’d want 
to take any credit that isn’t altogether his.” 

I had my doubts, however. Andy was a fine fellow; 
inclined to resent criticism, of course, and possessed of 
a quick temper, but altogether honest and square at 
heart. 

“Maybe,” I suggested, “he’ll say something about it 
to-night.” 

“And maybe he won’t,” Barry added. 

When we reached the building, fifty or more boys 
and girls were there before us. Others arrived, singly 
and in groups; and when finally Andy came along with 
Budd Smith and Hugh Potter, some one started to 
cheer, and the rest of us joined in. Andy, his face 
beaming, feigned indifference, but it was easy to see 
that he was tickled to death. 

Tom Borden, who had a loud voice and didn’t mind 
using it, was master of ceremonies. 

“The first thing we’ll do,” he announced in sten¬ 
torian tones, “will be to march eight abreast through 
the town and let people know that the high school is 
37 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


on the map. Then, at the corner of Main and Cherry 
streets, the parade will break up and the fellows will 
scout around for wood. At nine o’clock we’ll meet 
again on the athletic field for a big bonfire and 
speeches.” 

“Where are we going to get the wood?” some one 
demanded. 

“Any place that you can find it.” Tom held up his 
hand wamingly. “But remember, fellows, nothing 
rough about this. We don’t want to do anything to 
get the high school in wrong.” 

“We’ll be careful,” Hugh Potter promised. 

After a good deal of confusion, we formed in some 
sort of order, and, led by the members of the football 
team, headed for the business part of town. First 
there was a line of boys and then a line of girls, and 
for a time we marched regularly, in military forma¬ 
tion. When we arrived at a point about a block from 
Main Street, however, Tom Borden called a halt. 

“As soon as we get under the bright lights,” he said, 
“we’ll start singing the Cranford song, and keep on un¬ 
til we get to the end of Main Street. Then we’ll turn 
around and do the zigzag dance back again.” He 
brought up his hand in what was meant to be a salute. 
“Forward march!” 

A minute later we began singing, a hundred or more 
voices ringing out upon the crisp November air. Sat¬ 
urday night was always a big night at Cranford, a 
time when farmers from the surrounding country 
38 



ANDY 


came to town to do their weekly shopping. Both sides 
of the broad street were lined with cars of all kinds 
and descriptions, the stores were brilliantly lighted, and 
the sidewalks crowded. As we advanced, singing 
lustily, people stopped what they were doing and 
watched us go by. Occasionally some one who had 
seen the game called out to the football players— 
but mostly to Andy. A fat policeman at a street in¬ 
tersection grinned at us cordially and held up traffic 
until we had passed. It was surely the high school’s 
night. 

When we reached the end of Main Street, we circled 
the traffic post and began our return march. But now, 
the song ended, we gave a ’ong yell for the Cranford 
team, and then began what we called our zigzag dance. 
The first row, arms entwined, danced to the right, the 
second to the left, the third to the right, and so on down 
the line. Led by Tom Borden, we began to count: 

“One, two, three, four”—up to twelve, which was 
the number of points Cranford had made that after¬ 
noon. When we reached the Lyric Theater, some of 
the boys suggested that we push our way in and march 
down the aisles, but Budd Smith protested. 

“No,” he said, “we’d only annoy people. It’s our 
celebration, not theirs.” 

So we contented ourselves with standing outside 
and cheering, until, at eight o’clock, Tom called a 
halt. 

“We’ll separate now,” he directed, “and hunt for 
39 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


wood. But everybody is expected to be on the foot¬ 
ball field at nine sharp.” 

The boys drifted away in small groups; and most 
of the girls, because there wasn’t anything else to do, 
walked through the stores and made believe shop. 
After a few minutes of doing nothing, however, Barry 
suggested to two or three of us that we have a sundae 
at the Ice Cream Parlor, and we managed to find a 
vacant table in a far corner. There, after giving our 
orders, we began to talk about the game. 

“Andy, I imagine, will make a great speech to-night,” 
Dot Howard said. “He's always at his best at a time 
like this, you know.” 

“Yes,” Barry answered. She looked over at me 
significantly. “He has a wonderful chance to distin¬ 
guish himself.” 

“He's done that already,” Mary Todd remarked. 

“How about Budd?” I asked. 

“He played a good game, too,” Mary said. 

But, like every one else, it was Andy she wanted to 
talk about. And the other girls were perfectly will¬ 
ing to follow her lead; Andy, they declared, had been 
the big star of the game, and was entitled to the 
major share of the glory. 

“But, of course,” Mary conceded, “he couldn’t have 
done it if the rest of the team hadn’t helped.” 

“Probably not,” Barry agreed dryly. 

This discussion ended, however, when Mary glanced 
at her watch and saw that it was ten minutes to nine. 

40 



ANDY 


“We’ve got to go on,” she declared, “if we want to 
get to the field on time.” 

So we hurried out to the athletic field; as we took our 
place with the others, boys appeared out of the darkness 
dragging packing boxes, old barrels, limbs of dead 
trees, and every conceivable kind of wood for burning. 
But we noticed that there were no fence gates or other 
timber which might be of value. 

Some one found a massive pile of leaves under the 
stands, and the boys carried large armfuls of them un¬ 
til there was a heap four feet high in the center of the 
field. On this heap, they built a tottering structure of 
barrels, boxes, etc., and finally Tom announced that 
everything was ready. 

“Let Andy start it off,” some one suggested. 

So Andy, grinning happily, lighted a match and ap¬ 
plied the tiny blaze to the leaves. Almost instantly 
they caught, and in a few minutes a volume of fire 
leaped upward almost thirty feet, lighting the entire 
field so that it was as bright as day. Hand in hand, 
we danced around the fire, singing the school song 
again, stopping for an occasional cheer for the team, 
and having the time of our lives. But after the fire 
had spent its initial fury and began to burn steadily, 
we seated ourselves in a circle on the warm ground, and 
waited for the speeches. 

First of all, Tom called upon Mr. Meyers, the school 
principal, who spoke only briefly, announcing that a 
formal dinner to the football players would be given 
4i 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


in the school on the following Friday evening. Then 
Tom made a speech himself, congratulating us upon our 
cheering during the game. And then he called on 
Budd. 

But when we looked around for Budd, he was no¬ 
where to be found; and after a minute of futile search, 
Tom turned to us. 

“Old Budd,” he declared, “never was crazy about 
making speeches. He’s slipped off somewhere, but 
that won’t prevent us from giving him a cheer. Let’s 
make it a good one.” 

So we cheered joyfully for Budd Smith, one of the 
best fullbacks that the school had ever known, and I 
think that Barry and I yelled louder than any one else. 
Then Tom called upon Hugh Potter. 

Hugh announced that he hadn’t much to say. 

“If it hadn’t been for Andy Kirk,” he continued, 
“I’d feel pretty small just about this time to-night. 
For you will remember that it was my fumble that gave 
Woodbridge their touchdown. I was in disgrace then 
and would have kept on being in disgrace if it hadn’t 
been for Andy. But he picked up the ball in those last 
two minutes and turned defeat into victory. How 
about hearing from him?” 

A chorus of eager voices greeted Hugh’s suggestion, 
demanding word from Andy. 

“Speech, speech!” we called; and Andy, pushed to his 
feet by the boys beside him, stood before us, his back to 
the fire. 


42 



ANDY 


We had expected that he would say something about 
the fighting spirit of the team, giving credit to the fel¬ 
lows who played the game; and that, at the end, he 
would attempt to make light of his own part in the 
victory. For he knew, as well as we did, that nothing 
he could say could take anything away from the glory 
of that last touchdown. 

But Andy’s face, as he turned toward us, was as 
solemn as an owl’s, and in the bright gleam of the fire, 
it looked pale and drawn. He waited until the ap¬ 
plause had died down, and when he spoke, his voice 
trembled a little and all of his usual self-assurance had 
gone from him. 

‘‘I’m glad,” he said huskily, “that Cranford won to¬ 
day, and I’m glad, too, that I did my part toward the 
victory. But you people who have been making a big 
hero out of me are on the wrong track. The real hero 
of the game is the fellow you have cheered for only 
once or twice and who, when the time came for him to 
make a speech to-night, was too modest to say 
anything.” 

Andy paused, and the girls and boys in front of him 
looked at one another with puzzled eyes. But Barry, 
who understood what Andy was driving at, gripped my 
arm tensely, and waited eagerly for him to continue. 

“He’s going to do the big thing,” she whispered. 

“The player I’m referring to,” Andy announced, “is 
Budd Smith. If you’ll go back to the second quarter 
of the game to-day, you’ll remember that it was Budd’s 
43 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


rushes which carried the ball to within a foot of the 
goal line. All I did was to take it over, but the cheer 
that followed was for me instead of for Budd.” 

Andy paused again, and no one said a word. 

“Then we came to those last two minutes,” he con¬ 
tinued. “The Woodbridge quarterback fumbled a punt, 
and both Budd and I went after the ball. Budd was 
in the lead and could have fallen on it, but instead, he 
crashed into the Woodbridge player just behind him, 
and made it possible for me to pick up the ball and 
make a touchdown.” 

Andy stopped again; and this time, Barry started to 
clap. Others took it up, until a wave of applause 
swept across the field. Andy, holding up his hand for 
silence, cleared his throat huskily. 

“So it’s Budd and not me,” he concluded, “who really 
won to-day’s game. And just to show him what we 
think of him, I want you to give a long yell, and a good 
one, for Budd Smith—the school hero.” 

Andy led the cheer, which made all which had gone 
before sound weak by comparison; and Budd, wher¬ 
ever he was, must certainly have heard it, and won¬ 
dered a bit. When it had died away, Barry turned to 
me with shining eyes. 

“Andy surely did make a great speech to-night,” she 
said. 



CHAPTER IV 


THE GIRLS’ TEAM 

O N the Friday evening following the Wood- 
bridge victory, the junior and senior girls in 
Domestic Science gave a banquet to the high- 
school football team. Under Miss Embree’s direction 
we had worked the live-long day to make the affair a 
big success, and when finally the ice cream was served 
and the boys sat back to listen to the speeches of Cap¬ 
tain Andy Kirk and the others, we took our places on 
some chairs which had been left for us at one side of 
the room, and leaned back wearily, but with the knowl¬ 
edge that comes from a job well done. 

The President of the Board of Education, a gray¬ 
haired man with a straggling mustache, shifted to his 
feet, cleared his throat, and wiped his forehead with a 
wrinkled handkerchief. 

“I am not going to say anything/* he began in a 
husky voice which almost trembled, “except to con¬ 
gratulate the boys upon the completion of a successful 
football season, and doubly to congratulate the girls 
upon the excellent dinner which they have just pre¬ 
pared and served.” 


45 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


He paused for a moment, and the members of the 
team grinned happily. 

“Let’s give the girls a long yell,” Budd Smith 
suggested. 

Tom Borden arose in his place near the foot of the 
table, and held up his hand. 

“Make it a good one,” he urged. 

When the cheer was completed, the President of the 
Board began to talk again. He told us some things we 
already knew about the school, and complimented the 
principal, the teachers and the students, and only 
omitted the janitor because he probably forgot about 
him. Then he introduced Andy Kirk. 

Andy stood up and thrust his hands into his trousers 
pockets. He had really made his big speech at the 
bonfire celebration the week before, and now he was 
entirely at his ease, knowing that little would be ex¬ 
pected of him. He was mighty good looking, as he 
stood there before us, with black hair which was al¬ 
ways combed, big brown eyes, a straight nose, and a 
chin which had a cleft in it. 

“I am glad to be here,” he said, “and to thank the 
girls for all that they have done for us. I know that 
the members of the team appreciate it, and hope to be 
able to pay back sometime. But it seems to me that the 
best way for us to show how much we appreciate them 
is to keep on working everlastingly for the school and 
make the coming basketball season just as successful as 
the football season was. If we all work together for 
46 



THE GIRLS 9 TEAM 


the school, then we’ll have a better and a stronger and 
more worthwhile Cranford. And that is what we are 
all working for, I know. It’s the school that counts.” 

He sat down, rather pleased with himself, and the 
rest of us pounded our hands together until our palms 
hurt. The President of the Board nodded approv¬ 
ingly, and stood up to talk some more. 

There were other speeches; by Mr. Meyers, Hugh 
Potter and Budd Smith, who was treasurer of the A. A. 

Budd didn’t make a speech exactly; he simply read 
from a paper in his hand, telling of the financial con¬ 
dition of the Athletic Association. The football sea¬ 
son had cost two hundred and ten dollars, and the 
admission to games had been one hundred and seventy- 
five. 

“That leaves a balance on hand, counting student sub¬ 
scriptions, of seven hundred and fifteen dollars,” he 
concluded. “If things keep on this way, we’ll finish 
the year with a big surplus.” 

He sat down, and again we all applauded. 

“Budd’s all right,” Barry Browning whispered to 
me. “He’s one of the best fellows in school.” 

I knew that, of course. Budd was a member of the 
junior class; he played on all the varsity teams, and 
everybody liked him immensely; but we rather took 
him for granted, as we did the principal himself, ex¬ 
cept on occasions when he did something which showed 
us what a real leader he was. He had light hair, which 
stood up from his forehead like pictures you see of 
47 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


a person who is half scared to death; a pug nose, a 
broad mouth and a square jaw. In everything that he 
did, he plugged along earnestly and gave the best that 
he had; and whenever he had something to say, he 
said it bluntly, straight from the shoulder. And as 
far as he was concerned, the girls of the school never 
existed. But we all liked him, just the same. 

The President of the Board was speaking again. 

“Before we adjourn/’ he said, “I would suggest that 
we have a word from the ladies.” 

We had expected that, of course, and Barry was 
ready. Naturally, she would be the one to speak for us. 
She was the leader of the girls of the school; vice- 
president of the senior class, the president of the 
Shakespeare Society, and the probable Valedictorian. 
Now, as she stood before us, slender, with wavy chest¬ 
nut hair, and big black eyes, there was not one of us 
who was not proud of her leadership. 

She made, I think, the best speech of the evening, 
telling how pleased we all were with the football team’s 
success and how Cranford could always count on the 
loyalty and support of the girls. After she had fin¬ 
ished, the boys went home, and the rest of us spent an¬ 
other hour or so washing dishes and cleaning up. And 
then, because we were excited and didn’t feel at all like 
sleeping, a group of us sat on the front steps of the 
school and just talked. 

It was Miss Embree who made the suggestion about 
the basketball team. 


48 




THE GIRLS’ TEAM 


“Most of you have played basketball at the Y. M. 
C. A., haven’t you?” she asked. This was her first 
year at Cranford, and she did not know so very much 
about us. She had graduated from Vassar the year 
before, where, report had it, she had taken a prominent 
part in athletics. 

“Three of us played on the girls’ team at the ‘Y,’ ” 
Dot Howard told her. “Every Tuesday, you know, 
the building is turned over to us.” 

Miss Embree nodded. 

“I thought so,” she said. “Why not a girls’ basket¬ 
ball team for Cranford High?” 

When we came to think of it, there was no reason 
why we should not have a team; but it had not oc¬ 
curred to any of us before. 

“That would be great,” Barry declared eagerly. 
“We can arrange a schedule with other schools and 
play our games in the high school gym.” 

“And go out of town, just as the boys do,” Dot 
added. 

But the practical Mildred Hartmore offered an ob¬ 
jection. 

“Where is the money coming from?” she asked. 

“It won’t cost much,” Barry asserted. “Most of us 
have our suits already, and—and there isn’t any other 
expense, is there?” 

“I’m not so sure about that.” Mildred wore tortoise¬ 
shell glasses and was going to college to study mathe¬ 
matics. “By a rule of the Board of Education, we’d 
49 



BARRY THE UN VAUNTED 


have to pay twenty-five dollars for the use of the 
gymnasium for the season. And then, there’s trav¬ 
eling expenses, and—and guaranties to visiting 
teams.” 

We did not know quite what to say about that. 
Last year, the Board had purchased the ground for a 
new athletic field, and the students had agreed to pay 
the few hundred dollars which had been necessary to 
grade it and lay out the baseball diamond. One of the 
members of the Board had advanced the money, but 
we were pledged to pay him back. The twenty-five- 
dollar assessment for use of the gym for varsity teams 
was to go into that fund. And we, of course, would 
be a varsity team. 

“We might charge admission,” Barry suggested. 

But Miss Embree shook her head. 

“We cant do that,” she said. “The high school is 
supported by general taxation, you know, and it’s 
a rule of the school that we can’t fix an admission 
price for any athletic contest in the building.” 

Barry frowned. 

“Who made all these rules, anyhow ?” she demanded. 

“The Board of Education,” Mildred Hartmore an¬ 
swered. Mildred’s father was a member of the Board. 
“They’re right, too. Our Athletic Association always 
has a lot of money on hand, and there isn’t any reason 
why we shouldn’t help pay for the field. It’s our field, 
you know.” 

Barry sighed resignedly. 

50 




THE GIRLS 9 TEAM 


“I suppose it is,” she said. “But nobody but the 
boys ever gets any good out of it.” 

We were silent for a time, then Mildred spoke again. 

“The only thing to do,” she said, “is to take the 
money we need out of the Athletic Association.” 

“But can we do that?” 

“Of course we can.” 

“How?” 

“Just ask for it.” 

“But will the boys give it to us ?” 

“Why not?” Mildred spoke almost scornfully. 
“We’re members of the A. A. as well as they are.” 

That was a new idea to most of us. The boys had 
always run the Athletic Association as they saw fit; all 
that we did was to subscribe five dollars a year, which 
entitled us to admission to all games. It had never oc¬ 
curred to us that we were members of the A. A. 

“Are you sure?” Barry asked doubtfully. 

“Absolutely!” Mildred’s thin lips were shut reso¬ 
lutely. “It says in the constitution that all pupils of 
the school who pay the prescribed dues are entitled to 
membership. And the five dollars we hand out for 
season tickets are the dues.” 

“That solves the problem then,” Barry declared. 
“And we can have our basketball team.” 

“And Miss Embree can coach us,” Dot Howard put 
in. 

“I’d be glad to.” The teacher smiled. “The boys 
haven’t a coach of their own, have they?” she asked. 

5i 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“No,” Mildred told her. “Andy Kirk, and Hugh 
Potter, the captain, act as coaches.” 

“It will be great fun,” Barry said happily. “Let’s 
have a meeting now and elect a captain and manager.” 

Most of the older girls of the school were present, 
so we followed Barry’s suggestion. We unanimously 
voted for her for captain, and then proceeded to the 
election of manager. It seemed to me that Mildred 
Hartmore was the one to take charge of the business 
end, and I was just about to say so when Dot Howard 
stood up and nominated me.” 

“I propose Jane Barr,” she said. 

“Second the motion,” some one called. 

I protested, of course, but it wasn’t any use, and the 
next thing I knew I was manager of the girls’ basket¬ 
ball team, I was glad for one thing, though; Barry 
was captain, and the two of us were inseparable. 

We talked for a time then about the membership of 
the team, and the schedule. 

“The thing to do,” Miss Embree explained, “is, first 
of all, to secure an appropriation for expenses from the 
Athletic Association. Then Barry can post a call for 
candidates on the bulletin board, and we’ll hold first 
practice on Thursday.” 

“That’s the day the boys use the gym,” Mildred put 
in. “They use it almost every afternoon, in fact.” 

“And they’ll be 'sore,’ ” Dot said, “if we ask them 
to give it up.” 

That was something we had not counted on, and 
52 




THE GIRLS 9 TEAM 


for a moment we looked at one another doubtfully. 
But Barry was optimistic, as usual. 

“Each team can practice three days a week, without 
hurting any one,” she declared. “The boys won’t 
mind; you remember what Andy Kirk said to-night 
about school spirit. And our basketball team, you 
know, will be a fine thing for the school.” 

The others seemed to agree with her; all except Mil¬ 
dred, whose lips shut primly. 

“How about the schedule?” I asked. 

“You can get games with Westfield, Plainfield, Lin¬ 
den, and Hyde Park,” Barry announced. “And 
then, of course, the last game of all must be with 
Woodbridge.” 

“And you had better schedule them at Cranford, on 
the same day that the boys play their other team,” Dot 
put in. 

“Make it a double header,” Jane Todd suggested. 
“And we can play the preliminary game.” 

Miss Embree glanced at her wrist watch. 

“It’s eleven o’clock,” she said, “and time that we 
were all in bed.” 

We stood up reluctantly. 

“There’s going to be an A. A. meeting on Monday,” 
Barry declared. “I saw the notice on the bulletin 
board. We can ask the boys then for the money to 
finance the season.” 

“And after that, we can post our notice,” Dot added, 
“and hold practice on Tuesday or Wednesday.” 

53 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Barry nodded. 

“It’s going to be lots of fun,” she asserted. “Come 
on, Jane; going home?” 

Only Mildred Hartmore seemed at all doubtful about 
the success of our plan. 

“You just wait until Andy Kirk hears about it,” she 
said, just before we parted. 

But nobody paid much attention to Mildred. 




CHAPTER V 


OPPOSITION 

O N Saturday afternoon, because it was between 
seasons, too late for football and too early 
for basketball games, Barry and I sat in the 
living room of her home before a glowing grate fire. 
It was cold outside, so cold that word had come to us 
that there was skating on Milton Lake. It was early, 
though, and Barry was frankly dubious. 

“It doesn't seem possible," she said, “that the 
ice could freeze enough to hold us during the last few 
hours. Last night, when we sat on the porch of the 
high school, it was just like spring." 

We gave up the idea then of going out to the lake, 
and for quite a time we just sat and talked about the 
basketball team. Barry’s enthusiasm was as strong as 
ever, and she had all kinds of plans to make the season 
a success. 

“Maybe," she said, “with Miss Embree coaching us, 
we can make as good a record as the boys do, or even 
better.” 

It surely looked as if we would have a winning team. 
Five or six of us had been playing basketball for the 
55 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


past two years, on our Y. M. C. A. girls’ team, which 
was among the best in our part of the State, even 
though the players were on the average younger than 
those from other places. Barry, who was center on 
the Cranford team, was the star of the squad; she was 
tall and strong, and a natural athlete. Dot Howard 
played guard on the same team, and Mary Todd, who 
was forward, was almost as accurate as Barry in shoot¬ 
ing baskets. Both Catherine Davis and myself were 
on the second team, and occasionally, when one of the 
regulars was absent, we were permitted to play in some 
of the games. With Miss Embree coaching us, we fig¬ 
ured that we could give a good account of ourselves 
against the neighboring high schools. After a while, 
however, we got tired of talking basketball, and finally 
decided to get Barry’s runabout and go up to the lake 
to see if any one was around. We backed the car out 
of the garage and, driving through the center of the 
town, finally reached the dam. The lake was covered 
from shore to shore with a coat of crystal ice, but there 
was no one skating, and we had just about decided to 
go home again when we heard some voices around the 
bend, about fifty yards away. 

“It’s the high-school boys,” Barry announced, “I 
recognize Bill Woodruff talking.” 

We could not imagine what they could be doing on 
the lake at that time ; and so, to satisfy our curiosity, 
we walked over the dam and cut across the fields to 
a heavily wooded spot near the bank. There we 
56 




OPPOSITION 


found them playing “ticklish bender. ,, Andy Kirk, 
the leader as usual, was standing on the ice about ten 
feet from shore, and the other boys were watching him 
curiously. And as we looked we could see that the ice 
was sagging under his weight. 

He frowned as we came up, but Barry only waved 
her hand carelessly. 

“You’d better come out of there,” she advised him, 
“unless you want to take a cold bath.” 

Andy grinned. 

“I’ve just told these fellows that I can get to the 
other side without any trouble,” he answered, “and I’m 
going to do it.” 

Barry shook her head. 

“Come over here a minute first,” she said, “I want 
to talk to you.” 

Andy came back reluctantly, and the other boys 
looked at us curiously, as if they were wondering what 
under the sun we were doing there and wishing we 
would go about our business. 

“What’s on your mind?” Bill Woodruff asked. 
“Thinking of giving us another banquet?” 

“Something better than that,” Barry answered. 
“We’re going to have a girls’ basketball team.” 

Their eyes opened at that. 

“Do you mean a high-school team?” Andy demanded. 

“That’s it,” Barry told him. “Miss Embree is 
going to coach us and we’ve already elected a captain 
and manager.” 


57 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“You, I suppose,” Andy said. He had always been 
just a little jealous of Barry, and he spoke grump- 
ily. 

“One of them,” Barry announced. “I’m captain 
and Jane’s manager.” 

“Humph!” Andy looked toward the ice again, and 
the rest of the boys were silent. It was Budd Smith 
who spoke first. 

“A good thing,” he said. “You ought to have a 
lot of fun out of it.” 

Andy snorted. 

“We’ll have to see how the idea works out first,” 
he declared. “You’ll practice at the ‘Y,’ I suppose?” 

“No, in the high-school gym.” 

Andy’s face darkened. 

“We might give you one afternoon a week,” he con¬ 
ceded. “But I don’t know what the fellows will think 
about it.” 

Barry was too surprised for a moment to say 
anything. 

“We wanted you to bring it up before the Athletic 
Association meeting on Monday,” I suggested. “We’ll 
need money, and things like that, you know.” 

“Money? What do you want money for?” 

“Why, for expenses, and the use of the gym,” Barry 
explained. 

“We’ve got a big surplus in the treasury,” Budd put 
in. 

But Andy looked dubious. 

58 




OPPOSITION 


“That's to pay off the note on the athletic field,” 
he said. 

Things were not going at all the way we expected; 
and Barry’s eyes flashed angrily. 

“At any rate,” Budd declared, “we can’t do anything 
until Monday. Why not wait till then ?” 

“And will you bring it up before the A. A., Andy?” 
Barry asked. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“If he doesn’t, I will,” Budd promised. 

Two or three of the other boys stirred impatiently. 

“You said you were going to cross to the other side, 
Andy,” Hugh Potter reminded him. 

Andy turned. 

“Here goes,” he boasted. 

The boys moved close to the ice, but Barry and I 
remained where we were. 

“It looks very much, Jane,” Barry said softly, “as 
if things aren’t going to be as easy as we imagined.” 

Mildred Hartmore’s gloomy prediction came back 
to me, but I only told Barry that probably the boys 
would look at the plan differently after they had time 
to think about it. Barry nodded, the old twinkle com¬ 
ing back into her eyes. 

“If Andy Kirk doesn’t look out,” she declared, “he’s 
going to have a good deal more than basketball on his 
mind.” 

Andy had crept out to a place about fifteen feet from 
shore. The ice bent beneath his weight but did not 
59 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


crack, and he advanced carefully, dragging one foot 
after the other and trying to keep his weight evenly 
distributed. Once, there was an ominous crack, and 
the boys on shore called out wamingly. 

“Don’t be foolish,’’ Budd Smith said quietly. “The 
ice isn’t thick enough to hold you.” 

Andy looked back defiantly. If Budd hadn’t said 
anything, he might have given up his intention of cross¬ 
ing to the other side; but now his lips set stubbornly. 

“I said I’d do it,” he announced, “and I’m going 
to.” 

“It’s your funeral,” Budd told him. 

Andy got down on his hands and knees, and crawled 
along. The lake, where he was trying to cross, was 
no more than forty feet wide; but it was deep, and 
if Andy fell in, he would have to swim for it. But 
he was a good swimmer; and even though we knew 
he was doing a foolish thing, there was no real danger. 

“I wouldn’t care so very much if he did get wet,” 
Barry declared. 

There was a slight current in the center of the lake, 
and as Andy crept along foot by foot, the ice sagged 
more noticeably under him. Finally, he stopped creep¬ 
ing and lay flat on his chest, wriggling along. And 
then, just when he reached the center, the ice gave 
way without warning, and he disappeared into a jagged 
hole filled with black water. 

He came to the surface a moment later, his face as 
white as a sheet. His mouth was open, and he was 
60 




OPPOSITION 


gasping in a way which would have been Junny if we 
had not all been so frightened. 

“Grab hold of the ice and hang on,” Budd Smith 
called to him. “We’ll get a plank somewhere and 
help you out.” 

“Hurry!” Andy’s voice had a hint of fear in it. 
“It—it’s cold in here.” 

Budd turned to two of the other boys. 

“There are some loose planks down by the dam,” 
he snapped. “Run over there and bring a couple of 
the longest ones you can find.” 

Tom Borden and Hugh Potter dashed through the 
fringe of woods and across the field by the way we 
had just come; and Budd turned again to Andy. 

“Hang on,” he directed, “and keep your nerve. 
We’ll have you out in no time.” 

But Andy’s face was still white, and his teeth were 
chattering. 

“I—I can’t stay here very long,” he said, “or I’ll 
freeze to death.” 

By the churning of the water, we knew that he was 
kicking his feet desperately; and after a minute, he 
raised his arms and rested them on the ice. We 
watched fearfully. 

“Don’t try to get up,’’ Budd urged him, “or you’ll 
break the ice.” 

But Andy was rapidly becoming panic-stricken; 
and even as Budd spoke, he bore down with his arms 
and attempted to climb up. The thin ice cracked om- 
61 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


inously and gave way under him, so that his head 
sank below the surface; and when he came up again, 
he glanced over at us with fear-filled eyes and began 
to splash around wildly. 

“Easy, easy!” Budd called. “Don’t lose your 
nerve, Andy.” 

There was something reassuring, something steady¬ 
ing, in Budd’s words; and for a moment, Andy stopped 
his splashing. 

“Just tread water,” Budd continued, still speaking 
quietly. “The fellows will be here with a plank in 
just a minute.” 

“I—I—it’s cold,” Andy gasped. “Oh, hurry, 
hurry!” 

The sound of his own voice, weak and trembling, 
seemed to bring on his panic again. He flailed his 
arms about hysterically, reached the edge of the ice 
again, and attempted for the second time to lift him¬ 
self up. Naturally, the thin coating gave way, and 
his head disappeared beneath the surface. 

Barry and I stood rooted to our places, watching 
with staring eyes as Andy’s head bobbed out of the 
water. Budd Smith was on the very edge of the bank, 
leaning far over and holding on by grasping the limb 
of a tree. Bill Woodruff, his face white, stood just 
behind him. 

“Andy’s lost his nerve,” Bill said hoarsely. “If 
we don’t get a plank soon, he’ll drown.” 

For a moment, Budd was silent, then: 

62 




OPPOSITION 


“Andy!” he called sharply. “Come out of it! Get 
hold of yourself !” 

But even though the voice struck into the quiet of 
the afternoon like the crack of a whip, Andy seemed 
not to hear it at all. He turned his face toward us, 
and we saw that his eyes were without recognition. 
His lips were parted, and his hair was plastered over 
his forehead. And even as we watched, he sank for 
the second time beneath the water. 

“He’s drowning!” Barry gasped. 

There was no sign of the two boys who had gone 
to the dam for a plank. The lake was deserted, ex¬ 
cept for the struggling Andy and the four of us who 
stood looking at him helplessly. And we knew, al¬ 
though none of us spoke, that there was no possible 
aid for the boy in the water, except what we could 
give him ourselves. 

Suddenly, without a word, Budd Smith took off his 
coat, and stepped out upon the ice. Andy, who had 
come to the surface again, was splashing about wildly, 
but with waning strength. 

“Oh!” Barry called. “Budd-” 

But no one paid any attention to her. Budd got 
down on his hands and knees, pushed with his feet, 
and went sliding across the slippery ice. His momen¬ 
tum carried him to the edge of the water, where he 
hesitated just for an instant. Then, the ice gave way 
beneath him, and he disappeared. 

He was up again in an instant, his lips contracted 

63 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


with the pain of the freezing water. He turned to 
where Andy was struggling desperately, and took two 
strong strokes toward him. And then the other boy, 
only half conscious, discovered him, and with a chok¬ 
ing cry, reached forward and circled his arms about 
Budd’s neck. 

For perhaps ten seconds, they clung together, Andy 
holding on with the desperation of a drowning man 
and Budd trying to break the grip. Then, with a sud¬ 
denness which left us gaping in fearful apprehension, 
Budd ceased his efforts, and the two boys sank life¬ 
lessly beneath the water. 

“He’s dragged Budd down,” Bill Woodruff declared 
hoarsely. 

“And they’ll both drown,” Barry added. 

From behind us came a shrill cry, followed by the 
crash of running figures through the underbrush. It 
was Tom Borden and Hugh Potter coming with a 
plank. 

“Help! Help!” Barry called piercingly. “Hurry 
with the plank!” 

We looked toward the water again; and then our 
hearts stood still. For the two boys had reappeared on 
the surface. Budd Smith, his face white but his lips 
resolute, was holding the unconscious form of Andy 
Kirk with the right arm, and keeping himself afloat 
with his left. 

“I had to knock Andy out to keep him from pulling 
me down,” he announced; and, although his voice was 
64 



OPPOSITION 


husky, he spoke quietly enough. “But for the love 
of Mike, hurry up with the plank !” 

Tom and Hugh, reaching the bank, took in the situa¬ 
tion at once. 

“Hang on just a: moment, Budd,” Hugh called, 
“and we’ll slide the board out to you.” 

The single plank, which they had carried from the 
dam, was about twelve feet long and at least an inch 
in thickness. The three boys pushed it out over the 
ice; and then Bill Woodruff, who was the lightest, 
crawled out after it and kept on pushing until the end 
of it hung over the open water. Budd, grasping it 
with his left hand, shifted the weight of Andy’s body 
and attempted to lift his heavy burden. But Andy’s 
weight was too much for him. 

“I can’t lift him out all by myself,” he announced. 
“One of you fellows will have to come and get him.” 

Bill Woodruff crawled along the board, while Hugh 
and Tom held the end nearest shore. With Budd’s 
help, Bill finally managed to lift Andy to the plank 
and drag him along the smooth ice to the shelter of 
the bank. Budd clambered out himself, and followed; 
and, even though he was shivering from the biting 
cold, he still took command. 

“One of you fellows wrap Andy in your overcoat,” 
he said, “and give me something to keep me warm.” 

“I can take you both home in my car in no time,” 
Barry volunteered. “It’s just below the dam.” 

The three other boys picked Andy up and carried him 

65 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


across the fields, while Budd shuffled along after him, 
and Barry and I brought up the rear. We tumbled the 
unconscious boy into the car, and Budd stood on the 
running board and held him. Then Barry proceeded 
to break the speed records to town. 

“If it hadn’t been for Budd,” Bill Woodruff said 
wonderingly, after they had gone, “Andy Kirk would 
have drowned.” 

Hugh Potter nodded. 

“It’s a funny thing,” he answered, “but almost 
always, when some one’s in a tight fix, it’s Budd who 
comes through.” 

Strangely, even though basketball was the farthest 
thing from my mind at that moment, I found myself 
remembering that Budd Smith had promised to help 
us out. And, as Hugh had said, it was Budd who gen¬ 
erally “came through.” 



CHAPTER VI 


THE A. A. MEETING 

O N Monday morning when we reached the 
school building, Andy Kirk was standing in 
the hallway in front of the bulletin board. 
We had heard, of course, that he had regained con¬ 
sciousness shortly after reaching home and that he 
was not likely to suffer any ill effects from his acci¬ 
dent; but it seemed strange, nevertheless, to see him 
there in the corridor apparently the same as ever. He 
greeted us rather awkwardly, as if he was just a little 
ashamed of himself. 

“Feeling all right ?” Barry asked him. 

“Fine!” he answered. “And—and thanks for giv¬ 
ing me a lift Saturday.” 

Barry grinned. 

“You surely did need one,” she said. 

I thought she was going to remind him that if he 
had taken Budd Smith’s advice, he would have saved 
us all a lot of worry; but Barry, even though she is 
impulsive at times, knows when to keep still, and so 
the subject was dropped. 

67 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Mildred Hartmore came up just then, and glanced 
at Andy curiously. 

“Maybe the next time you go out on the ice, you’ll 
wait until it’s hard enough to hold you,” she snapped 
at him. 

Andy reddened, and his eyes lighted angrily. But 
he did not answer, and was about to walk away when 
Mildred spoke again. 

“You’ve heard about our girls’ basketball team, 
haven’t you?” she asked. 

“Yes, a little, why?” Andy spoke defiantly. 

“Nothing, only we’ll need a hundred-dollar appro¬ 
priation, and we want you boys to vote it for us this 
afternoon.” 

Mildred’s words were more of a demand than a 
request; and Andy wasn’t in the habit of being ordered 
to do things. His face grew redder than ever. 

“Maybe we will and maybe we won’t,” he announced 
bluntly. “The A. A. has got to pay off that note, you 
know.” 

Mildred started to reply, but just then Budd Smith 
came in, and Andy turned abruptly away from her. 
Budd grinned into his serious eyes. 

“Hello!” he said. “Glad to see you’re all right 
again.” 

Andy nodded. 

“If it hadn’t been for you, Budd,” he announced 
quietly, “I probably wouldn’t be here this morning.” 

68 



THE A. A. MEETING 


“Nonsense!” Budd looked suddenly embarrassed 
and unhappy. 

“I wouldn’t,” Andy persisted. Suddenly he held out 
his hand. “Budd,” he said, and there was the ring of 
sincerity in his voice, “if ever you get in a tight place 
and want me to help you out, just let me know, will 
you?” 

Budd took the outstretched hand, and for a moment 
the two boys stood in the center of the hallway, looking 
into each other’s eyes. 

“Sure I will,” Budd said evenly. “And now let’s 
forget all about it.” 

But Andy shook his head. 

“I’m not going to forget,” he promised, “until I’ve 
paid you back.” 

Just then the bell rang, and we all hurried to our 
classrooms. But just before we stood up to march 
into the auditorium, Barry leaned across the aisle and 
whispered to me. 

“That was a mighty fine thing that Andy did,” she 
said. 

Nevertheless, we could not quite get over the feeling 
that Andy was not to be counted on to help us much 
in the Athletic Association meeting that afternoon. 
If Mildred Hartmore had not been so tactless in her 
conversation with him before school started, it is prob¬ 
able that he would have brought the matter up and put 
it through for us. But Mildred had a way about her 
which just naturally made people angry; and when 
69 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Andy once set his mind on a thing, he was practically 
immovable. And we could see by the way he had 
answered Mildred that he was not in favor of our 
basketball team. Mildred evidently sensed it too, for 
during the last period she sent a note around the his¬ 
tory class suggesting that the girls interested in basket¬ 
ball meet in the basement at twelve-thirty. 

When we returned from lunch, we found six 
or seven of the other girls ahead of us. 

“As far as I can see,” Mildred Hartmore announced, 
“Andy Kirk isn’t going to do anything to help us in 
the A. A. meeting.” 

“What makes you think that?” Mary Todd wanted 
to know. 

“When I spoke to him this morning about it, he was 
just as mean as he could be.” 

“But he didn’t say he was agcdnst it, did he ?” Mary 
persisted. 

“No, but you know what Andy is; he wants to run 
everything, and when some one else takes a hand, he 
gets stubborn.” 

“Andy’s all right if you handle him in the right 
way,” Barry put in. 

Mildred turned sharply. 

“Meaning, I suppose/’ she snapped, “that I went 
about things wrong this morning.” 

Barry nodded. 

“That’s about what I mean,” she said quietly. 

70 



THE A. A. MEETING 


We were all silent for a moment, while Mildred’s 
eyes flashed. 

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” Dot 
Howard asked finally. 

At the promise of action, Mildred’s anger died 
down. 

“The thing to do,” she announced, “is to appoint 
some delegates to attend the A. A. meeting.” 

“Why?” 

“So we can see what action is taken and know where 
we stand.” 

“That isn’t such a bad idea,” Barry said. “Who’ll 
be the ones to go ?” 

“How about you and Jane and Mildred?” Dot 
suggested. 

“All right,” Barry answered. “Jane and I can be 
the two official representatives of the team, and Mil¬ 
dred can be our lawyer. She knows all about the con¬ 
stitution and things like that.” 

“That’s settled then,” Mildred announced. “But 
there’s one thing we ought to do first.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Get Mr. Meyer’s permission to have a girls’ team. 
We haven’t spoken to him about it yet, you know.” 

“Oh, he’ll let us have it, all right,” Barry declared 
confidently. “How about going to see him now?” 

“I move the three delegates do that too,” Dot How¬ 
ard put in. 

So the three of us went to Mr. Meyers’ office, where 
7i 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


we found the school principal reading some papers on 
his desk. He stopped, though, when he saw that we 
wanted to speak to him. 

“What can I do for you young ladies ?” he asked. 

“We won’t take a minute of your time,” Barry 
advised him. “We only want your permission to form 
a girls’ basketball team.” 

“Miss Embree has already spoken to me about that,” 
he answered. “And you have my permission to go 
ahead.” 

“And may we use the school gymnasium to practice 
and play games in?” Mildred asked. 

“I suppose so. You can arrange with the boys 
about the afternoons.” 

Mildred’s lips set. 

“We’ll do that,” she said. “And thank you very 
much.” 

We started to go, but Mr. Meyers held up his hand. 

“You understand, of course,” he declared, “that the 
same eligibility rules will apply to your team as to all 
ether teams representing the school. If any member 
is below grade in two subjects, she will not be permitted 
to play.” 

“Yes, sir, we understand that,” Barry told him. 

He nodded. 

“The rest of the arrangements, then, are in your 
hands,” he said. 

“Thank you, sir.” Barry hesitated for a moment, 
wondering whether or not to tell him about our need 
72 




THE A. A. MEETING 


of money for expenses. But finally she decided that 
it would not be altogether wise to bother him with 
that. Mr. Meyers was a fine principal and a good 
teacher, but he was inclined to be absent-minded and 
he did not take much interest in athletics. He had 
always let the boys run things to suit themselves, so 
long as they were square about it; and we rather felt 
that he would not care to be bothered by our affairs. 

We were glad, though, that we had secured his per¬ 
mission to go ahead; and as soon as the afternoon 
session was ended, the three delegates met in the Senior 
room and held a brief conference. 

“We’ll simply take our seats in the A. A. meeting.’* 
Barry directed, “and wait and see what happens. 
Whether Andy does anything or not, Budd Smith 
will bring up the question. He gave his promise, you 
know.” 

“And what if they vote against us?” Mildred asked. 

“We can decide what to do later, in that case,” 
Barry told her. 

But Mildred, frowning, set her lips tightly together; 
and after one glance at her, I could not quite escape 
the feeling that the A. A. meeting wasn’t going to be 
altogether a tea party. 

Most of the boys were seated in the auditorium 
when the three of us filed into the room, Barry in the 
lead. Andy Kirk, who had been talking to Tom Bor¬ 
den on the platform, glanced up curiously as we en¬ 
tered; and at the sight of us, his jaw dropped. 

73 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


We took our places in the third row from the front, 
and Barry grinned into Andy’s somber eyes. But no 
answering smile greeted her. 

“We’re holding an A. A. meeting here this after¬ 
noon,” Andy told us doubtfully. “Is there anything 
we can do for you before we start?” 

“No,” Barry answered. “We’re just attending the 
meeting, Andy, that’s all.” 

The President of the Athletic Association turned 
a puzzled face to Tom Borden, who was Secretary. 

“What about it, Tom?” he asked in a low voice, 
but loudly enough for us to hear. 

Tom seemed to consider it something of a joke. 

“Oh, let them stay,” he said indifferently. “They’re 
not hurting anybody.” 

Andy, after a moment of hesitation, advanced to the 
center of the platform and tapped with a ruler upon a 
small oak table. 

“The meeting will please come to order,” he said, 
and spoke with a sort of pompous dignity which was 
almost funny. “The Secretary will please read the 
minutes of our previous meeting.” 

In spite of myself, I could not help grinning; and 
as Tom Borden shuffled to the table, Barry snickered 
openly. Andy grew suddenly red and glared down 
at us, but Tom only held up the minute book in front 
of him and began to read hurriedly and in such a 
mumbling tone that no one could hear him. When 
he had finished, Andy held up his hand. 

74 




THE A. A. MEETING 


“What is your pleasure ?” he asked. 

“Move the minutes be accepted as read,” some one 
called. 

“Second the motion!” 

“All in favor give the usual sign,” Andy directed. 

A chorus of “ayes” swept through the half-filled 
room. 

“The motion is carried,” Andy declared. 

He was so formal about it, so unnatural, that I 
found myself grinning again. He seemed to take his 
office very seriously, and, from the way he carried 
himself on the platform, one would think that the bur¬ 
dens of the world rested on his shoulders. It must 
have struck Barry as funny, too, for when I glanced 
over at her, she was smiling from ear to ear. 

Andy completely ignored us, but we could see that 
he was conscious of our presence and resentful of our 
smiles. 

“We have called a meeting to-day,” he announced, 
“to consider the matter of buying basketball suits for 
the school team. We find that we can get complete 
outfits for seven men at twenty dollars a man. That 
will mean an appropriation of one hundred and forty 
dollars. Will somebody make that motion?” 

Bill Woodruff stood up near the back of the room. 

“I move it,” he said. 

“Second the motion,” another boy called out. 

“Is there any discussion ?” Andy asked. 

Budd Smith got up. 


75 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“How about the suits we had last year?” he inquired. 
“What are we going to do with them?” 

Andy frowned. 

“We’ve already worn them two years.” he explained, 
“and they’re pretty well gone. We’re going to have 
a good team this year, and we ought to have good 
uniforms.” Andy turned away from Budd. “If 
there is no more discussion,” he declared, “We’ll put 
it to vote. All in favor say ‘aye.’ ” 

A chorus of voices answered him. 

“Those opposed say ‘no,’ ” Andy directed. 

“No!” Budd Smith boomed out hoarsely. 

“The motion is carried,” Andy said, “and Bill 
Woodruff will go ahead and order the suits. Is there 
any other business?” 

There was a long moment of silence. We could tell 
by the way Andy purposely looked in the other direc¬ 
tion that he was not going to bring up the matter of 
our basketball team. Mildred Hartmore fidgeted in 
her seat, and the smile had gone from Barry’s face. 

“If not-” Andy began. 

And then Budd Smith stood up. 

“The girls of the school,” he announced bluntly, 
“are planning to organize a basketball team. They 
are going to play games with Plainfield, Westfield, 
and other high schools, and Miss Embree is going to 
coach them. They want a hundred dollars for the 
season’s expenses, and I move that the A. A. appro¬ 
priate that amount.” 


76 





THE A . A. MEETING 


Budd sat down, and the rest of the boys gazed at 
him in open amazement. Andy Kirk was the first 
to speak. 

“I’ve heard something about it,” he said, “but I 
didn’t really take it seriously. Our own team will 
use the high-school gymnasium almost every after^ 
noon, and we’ve just authorized the spending of a 
hundred and forty dollars from the A. A. treasury. 
It has been my hope that at the end of the year we can 
turn five hundred dollars into the building fund, and 
cancel the debt on our field. But we can’t do'that if 
we spend any more money.” 

Budd wasn’t much of a debater, but he stuck to his 
guns, nevertheless. 

“The girls of the school have paid as much money 
into the A. A. as the boys,” he declared. “And they 
ought to get some good out of it.” 

“They get their season tickets, don’t they?” Andy 
demanded. 

“YeS,” Budd answered grimly, “but they pay a dog¬ 
gone big price for them.” 

Andy, frowning, thrust his hands into his pockets, 
and turned away from Budd. Things had not gone 
well with him for the past two or three days, and it 
was easy to see that he was both angry and determined. 
But he did not let his anger get the better of him. 

“Fellows,” he said, and he spoke persuasively, as 
only Andy can speak, “I don’t think this is the right 
time for any new organizations in the school. We’ve 
77 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


got a debt of five hundred dollars hanging over us, 
and we want to pay it off as soon as possible. So 
I would suggest that we vote against spending any 
more money. Maybe next year we’ll be in a position 
to help out the girls.” 

We could see at once that his speech had made a 
good impression. But still, we might have had a 
chance if Mildred hadn’t decided to take a hand. She 
rose slowly in her place and looked up at Andy Kirk 
scornfully. 

“If you’re so anxious to economize,” she demanded, 
“why did you vote a hundred and forty dollars for 
basketball suits?” 

That was a hard one for Andy to answer. He 
glared back at Mildred angrily, and grew red under 
his collar. 

“That was a different matter,” he answered finally. 
Then he turned to the other boys. 

“Fellows,” he said, “all in favor of giving one 
hundred dollars from our treasury say ‘aye.’ ” 

There was an instant of silence, and then: 

“ ‘Aye,’ ” Budd Smith said evenly. 

“Those opposed?” 

“No!” 

“The motion,” Andy announced triumphantly, “is 
lost.” 



CHAPTER VII 


BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 
S soon as the meeting was ended, Mildred 



stalked out of the auditorium, looking all 


the world like a militant suffragette who 


had just been refused permission to visit the White 
House. But Barry, still smiling, waited quietly until 
Andy Kirk came down from the platform. Then she 
looked directly into Andy’s somber eyes. 

“Well, Andy,” she said pleasantly, “so you didn’t 
go through with it, after all.” 

The President of the A. A. glanced down at her 
curiously. Probably he misinterpreted the smile on 
Barry’s face, for some of the angry light went out 
of his eyes and he grinned in evident relief. 

“I’m glad you’re taking it this way, Barry,” he said. 
“It really is better for the girls to wait until next 
year.” 

“The only thing that bothers us,” Barry answered 
quietly, “is that next year most of our best players 
will have graduated.” 

But Andy seemed unimpressed. 

“Nobody cares much whether a girls’ team wins or 


79 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


loses,” he declared. “And I guess you can get along 
all right this winter without your basketball.” 

Barry still smiled. 

“You’ve guessed wrong this time, Andy,” she said, 
“because we’re not going to get along without it.” 

There was something in the way she spoke which 
caused Andy to glance at her keenly. 

“You’ll have to do without it if the A. A. says so,” 
he snapped. 

“Well,” Barry told him, “perhaps you’re right and 
perhaps you’re wrong.” Then she turned to me. 
“Come on, Jane,” she said, “you and I are going to 
hold an important conference.” 

Andy stood where he was and watched us as we 
walked down the aisle. Just before we reached the 
hall, I glanced back to where he was standing. He 
was regarding us speculatively, as if he did not quite 
know what to make of Barry’s statement. But I 
could see, by the firm set of his mouth, that even Barry 
would be unable to move him. For he had decided 
that the girls would not have a basketball team—and 
what Andy said usually went. 

Barry, however, did not seem to be particularly wor¬ 
ried. Dot Howard and some of the other girls were 
waiting in the Senior room for us, but when we ar¬ 
rived Mildred had already told them the news. To 
say that they were surprised and disappointed would 
be putting it mildly; and Mildred was so angry that 
her eyes blazed. 


80 



BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


“It’s all because Andy Kirk thinks he knows more 
than the rest of us put together/’ she raved. “The 
other boys follow him like a flock of sheep, and just 
because he ^ays we can’t have a team, the others say 
so too. He makes me sick.” 

Barry grinned. 

“What are you going to do about it, Mildred?” she 
asked. 

“The thing to do,” Mildred answered instantly, “is 
to go to Mr. Myers and have him make the A. A. give 
us the money.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“That would be admitting defeat without a fight,” 
she said evenly. “And we’re not beaten yet, by any 
means.” 

“But what can we do?” Mary Todd asked. “The 
A. A. has already refused us.” 

“We’ll have to do something,” Barry answered. 
She spoke quietly enough, but there was a fighting 
light in her eyes. “Nothing’s impossible,” she added, 
“if we go about it in the right way.” 

But there did not seem as if there was anything to 
be done, and all through supper I worried and fretted 
about it. At eight o’clock, however, just when I had 
finished lessons for the next day, Barry called me up. 

“Can you drop over for a little while?” she asked. 
“Maybe we can get together and work out the basket¬ 
ball problem.” 

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” I promised. 

81 





BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Barry’s house was next door to mine, on the out¬ 
skirts of town. Our families had been close friends 
for many years, and the two of us were almost like 
sisters. The only difference was that sisters some¬ 
times fight, and we never did. We went to school 
together every morning, took the same subjects, spent 
our afternoons together, and frequently studied to¬ 
gether at night. Each had free run of the other’s 
house, and there was a well-worn path between her 
side porch and mine. 

Barry’s home was delightful. It set far back from 
the road in the midst of a locust grove; a big brick 
house with two massive wings covered with clinging 
ivy, colonial pillars in front, and a wide entrance which 
seemed to exude good fellowship and welcome. The 
grounds had been carefully laid out by a landscape 
architect, there were flowers galore and a number of 
century-old oaks. Barry’s family had lived there for 
four generations, adding to the original building until 
now the house was one of the show places of Cranford. 

It was charming inside as well as out. There was 
a wide hall leading to a staircase of real mahogany, 
and at one side stood a grandfather’s clock which was 
worth its weight in gold. One door led to the dining 
room, with its maple chairs and tables, another into 
the living room, where a big divan waited invitingly 
before an open fireplace. Always in the winter there 
were logs blazing. 

Barry was waiting for me when I arrived. Her 
8 2 




BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


father sat by the library table reading a newspaper, but 
as soon as I entered he stood up and offered his hand 
in welcome. He was president of the Cranford 
National Bank, a fine-looking man with graying 
hair, kind blue eyes, and the manners of an aris¬ 
tocrat. Barry’s mother, who was sewing, smiled 
cordially. 

“Sit down, dear,” she said. “Barry seems to be 
excited about something.” 

“I am,” Barry declared. “I’m both excited and 
angry.” 

Mr. Browning smiled at her vehemence. 

“It doesn’t pay,” he said gently, “to let your anger 
get the better of you, Barry.” 

“I know it,” Barry grinned. “But I’m holding it 
in leash, Dad.” 

No one said anything for a moment. Knowing 
Barry’s parents, I did not wonder for an instant why 
she was the most popular girl in school. Although 
she was their only child, they had not spoiled her in 
the least but had taught her always to play the game 
fairly and squarely. 

“What’s up?” Mr. Browning asked finally. 

“It’s the boys,” Barry explained; and proceeded 
forthwith to tell him all about it. 

When she had finished, he sat for a long time star¬ 
ing into the glowing logs. 

“It looks,” he said finally, “as if you’ve got a fight 
on your hands. But it seems to me as if your basket- 

83 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


ball team is a splendid idea, and anything worth while, 
you know, is worth fighting for.” 

“Yes,” Barry answered, “I know that.” 

Mr. Browning went back to his paper, and for a 
time Barry and I just sat on the divan and thought. 
But although later we discussed all kinds of schemes, 
we were not able to hit upon a plan which seemed at 
all feasible. 

“I guess,” I suggested, “that we’ll have to admit 
defeat, Barry.” 

But she shook her head at that. 

“No,” she answered grimly, “we’ll think of some¬ 
thing sooner or later.” 

And sure enough, after school next day, Barry 
called a group of girls into the history room. 

“I’ve been reading a copy of the constitution in the 
principal’s office,” she said, “and the A. A. can call a 
meeting at any time at the written request of ten 
members.” 

“But what good will that do us?” Mildred Hart- 
more demanded. 

“A lot of good. We’re members, aren’t we?” 
Barry was silent for a moment. “Let’s request a 
meeting for Thursday afternoon,” she said. “We’ll 
give the paper to' Tom Borden in the morning.” 

There were some of us who could not quite see what 
Barry was driving at; but we signed our names to 
the petition she hurriedly drew up, and resigned our¬ 
selves to await further developments. On the way 
84 



BTJDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


home that afternoon, Barry outlined her campaign 
to me. 

“If Mildred had only let Andy alone,” she said, 
“and had not goaded him, he probably would have 
supported our basketball team without giving it a second 
thought. But you know how Mildred is. There’s 
something about her which makes people want to op¬ 
pose everything she does, and this time she struck up 
against Andy’s stubborn streak. Andy’s got it into 
his head that we oughtn’t to have a team of our own, 
and whether he’s right or wrong, he won’t change. 
The only thing to do, then, is to beat Andy at his own 
game.” 

“But how are we going to do that?” I asked. 

“By getting all the girl members of the Athletic 
Association to attend the meeting on Thursday. There 
are more girl members of the A. A. than there are boys, 
and, naturally, when the motion is put, we’ll carry 
it.” 

“But how about the school?” I asked. “Won’t it 
create hard feeling?” 

“I don’t think so.” There was a troubled light in 
Barry’s eyes, however. “Most of the boys don’t care 
one way or the other,” she said slowly. “But, 
naturally, when it came to supporting Andy or us, 
they stood behind Andy. If Budd Smith had been 
able to talk as cleverly as Andy did, a lot of them 
would have voted for us. But Budd isn’t any orator, 
and so we lost out. After we once get our team, 
85 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


however, and win a few games, the whole school will 
be behind us.” 

“But Andy,” I said, “will never quite forgive us.” 

Barry, however, did not quite agree with me. 

“Sooner or later,” she answered, “Andy is going to 
come through like the good sportsman he is.” 

It seemed to me, though, that Andy hadn’t shown 
much sportsmanship in the way he opposed Budd 
Smith’s motion; and I told Barry so. But again 
Barry had an answer ready. 

“The girls’ basketball team is a school affair,” she 
explained, “and not a personal issue between Budd and 
Andy. If, after what Budd did Saturday, Andy 
should follow his lead in everything that came up, he 
wouldn’t be a real man at all—just a rubber stamp 
for Budd to do what he wanted with.” 

“I hadn’t thought of it quite that way,” I admitted. 

Nevertheless, it occurred to me that the best solu¬ 
tion to our problem might be found through Budd 
Smith himself. If we should go to Budd and suggest 
that he ask Andy to support our basketball team as a 
personal favor to him, Andy probably would do it. 
But when I suggested the plan to Barry, she was frankly 
dubious. 

“Somehow, Jane,” she said, “it doesn’t seem exactly 
square.” 

“Why?” I demanded. 

“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t.” 

Nevertheless, after much urging, she consented to 
86 




BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


speak to Budd about it; and when, a short time later, 
we almost bumped into him on the way out of the 
Candy Kitchen, she put the question directly to him. 

“Budd,” she asked, “do you think that if you asked 
Andy as a personal favor to support our basketball 
team, he’d do it?” 

Budd was silent for a moment. He took off his 
skating cap and ran his stubby fingers through his 
rumpled hair. 

“I guess,” he said finally, “that maybe he would.” 

“And will you do it?” Barry continued. 

Budd turned his clear blue eyes upon us and looked 
into our faces unwaveringly. 

“No/’ he answered. “I couldn’t do that.” 

'‘Why?” 

“It would be too much like rubbing it in,” Budd 
said. 

Barry nodded, and then smiled into his puzzled 
eyes. 

“We knew you wouldn’t do it, Budd,” she said. 
“But we can still count on you to help us, can’t we?” 

“You sure can.” 

“Thanks, Budd,” Barry told him. “You’ve got 
more sense than any dozen of the rest of us put to¬ 
gether.” 

Budd, after an instant of uncertainty, put on his hat 
again and continued down the street. 

“Well,” Barry said, “I told you so.” 

Which shows that she was only human, like the rest 

87 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


of us. But all the next day, she was busy getting 
ready for the meeting on Wednesday. She appointed 
Dot Howard and me her lieutenants and made it our 
special job to see that every girl who had paid her five 
dollars to the Athletic Association promised to attend 
the affair. After school, she borrowed the Treasurer’s 
book from Budd Smith and spent an entire hour go¬ 
ing over the figures. When Thursday rolled around, 
she announced that she was ready. 

But, in the meantime, the boys had not been idle. 
Tom Borden accepted our petition without comment, 
and after a conference with Andy, tacked a notice on 
the bulletin board. They found out, of course, that 
we were marshaling our forces, and so they sent word 
around school for all the boys to be sure to report at the 
auditorium at three-fifteen. The result was that, at 
the appointed time, practically the entire student body 
was present. 

Andy, still dignified but just a little nervous, called 
the meeting to order. 

“We have been requested to meet,” he announced, 
“by a group of girls who are, according to the con¬ 
stitution, also members of the A. A.” 

“What right have they got to call a meeting?” one 
of the boys in the back of the room wanted to know. 

“The same right as any one,” Andy told him. 
“Every student in the school who pays his dues is a 
voting member of the Athletic Association. The con¬ 
stitution says so.” 


88 



BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


“Let’s get down to business,” Tom Borden growled. 

“We’ll have the reading of the minutes,” Andy 
directed. 

Tom mumbled through his account, while his au¬ 
dience stirred restlessly. When he had finished, the 
minutes were accepted as read, and everybody waited 
for the next move. It was rather an unusual situa¬ 
tion; we could feel the tension in the air, and there 
was no doubt of the fact that the boys had decided 
to stick together. They were not at all pleased at the 
way we had gone about things, and probably it was 
natural that they should feel resentful. But we had 
given them their chance to be generous, and they had 
not accepted it. 

“Is there any new business?” Andy asked. 

Barry stood up. 

“I move,” she announced, “that we reconsider our 
action at the last meeting and appropriate one hun¬ 
dred dollars toward the expenses of a girls’ basketball 
team.” 

“Second the motion,” Mildred Hartmore called out 
in a rasping voice. 

We could see Andy’s lips tighten. 

“Is there any discussion?” he asked. 

There was a good deal of discussion. Hugh Potter, 
as captain of the boys’ team, spoke against the ap¬ 
propriation, and was backed up by Bill Woodruff and 
Tom Borden. The A. A. needed the money to pay off 
the note on the athletic field, they said, and, anyhow, 
89 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


the school had never had a girls’ team and didn’t 
need one. 

When they had finished, Barry stood up again. 

“If you will agree to use your old suits and not 
spend a lot of money for new ones,” she said, “I’ll 
withdraw my motion.’’ 

Amazed silence greeted her suggestion. It was so 
unexpected, so significant, that for a moment even 
Andy was at a loss as to how to answer. But it was 
a clever move of Barry’s, for it put the matter of 
economy squarely up to the boys. 

Finally, Andy cleared his throat. 

“We’ll do no such thing,” he said angrily. “The 
suits have already been ordered and a check sent for 
their payment.” 

Barry smiled. 

“I call for the motion,” she announced. 

“All in favor,” Andy ventured, “will signify by say¬ 
ing ‘aye.’ ” 

Every girl in the room added her voice to the chorus 
which greeted him. 

“Those opposed?” 

The boys made known their opposition in thunderous 
tones. 

For a moment, Andy looked around helplessly. 
Then: 

“We’ll have to have written ballots,” he said. 

It took a long time to tear up the papers and distri¬ 
bute them, but eventually the votes were all collected, 
90 




BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


and Andy appointed Bill Woodruff and Mildred Hart- 
more tellers. Then the count began. 

It was fairly even, as we knew it would be. First 
one side and then the other forged into the lead, and 
there was never more than five votes separating them. 
But, finally, the last three slips were taken out of the 
basket, and Andy Kirk, with a broad grin on his face, 
walked over to the center of the platform. 

“The result of the voting,” he announced, “is 
seventy-five to seventy-three against the motion.” 

For a moment there was tense silence, and then the 
boys started to clap. As for us, we simply remained 
quietly in our seats, looking at one another with sur¬ 
prised eyes and chagrined faces. In spite of Barry’s 
inspiring leadership, in spite of our carefully laid plans, 
we had been defeated. After all our trouble, we were 
not going to have a basketball team. 

And then, when the applause had died away, Andy 
spoke again. 

“If there is no other business,” he said, “the mo¬ 
tion is in order to adjourn.” 

“I so move,” some one called. 

But Budd Smith rose to his feet, a worried-eyed 
Budd whose lips, nevertheless, were set in a straight 
line of resolution. 

“Just a minute,” he announced. “There’s something 
wrong somewhere.” 

Andy glanced over at him in profound amazement. 

“What do you mean, something wrong?” he asked. 
9i 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Just this,” Budd answered. “There are only sixty- 
nine boys in school who have paid their dues and there¬ 
fore entitled to vote. But the count against the mo¬ 
tion is seventy-six.” 

For an instant, Andy was stumped. Then he 
grinned. 

“Probably some of the girls voted with us,” he sug¬ 
gested easily. 

But we all shook our heads, and Budd stood up again. 

“What really happened,” he said, “is that seven fel¬ 
lows who are not entitled to a vote cast their ballots.” 

“Who are they?” Andy demanded defiantly. “And 
why seven? We’re only six over.” 

“Jack Robinson is one,” Budd told him quietly, “and 
Duncan Stanley is another. They’re not voting mem¬ 
bers of the A. A., but they handed in slips. I saw 
them do it. And the reason that seven boys must have 
done it is that I myself voted for the motion. I’ve 
always said that I was going to—and I did.” 

Stark silence greeted him. Then Andy spoke 
again. 

“Will all those fellows who haven’t paid their dues 
and who have voted please stand up,” he ordered. 

Seven boys in all parts of the room shuffled to their 
feet. 

“I didn’t know there was any such rule,” Jack Rob¬ 
inson announced. 

“But there is,” Andy said, “and your votes will have 
to be taken out.” 


92 




BUDD SMITH TAKES A HAND 


“How about the girls ?” Bill Woodruff asked. 

“Every girl here has paid her five dollars,” Budd de¬ 
clared. 

Andy frowned, but in spite of his disappointment, he 
took his defeat without whining. 

“In that case,” he announced, “the motion is carried, 
and—and the A. A. will appropriate one hundred 
dollars for a girls’ basketball team.” 

Naturally, we applauded at that, and when the hand¬ 
clapping had died down, we waited expectantly for 
Barry to stand up and say something. But she was a 
generous victor as well as a good loser, and she re¬ 
mained quietly in her place until the order to adjourn 
had been passed. 

Moreover, she did not have much to say when the 
girls gathered in the auditorium later in the afternoon 
and discussed plans for the basketball team. The rest 
of us were jubilant, of course, and Mildred Hartmore 
made a few caustic comments on how we had shown 
the boys “a thing or two.” We remained in the build¬ 
ing until almost six o’clock, and on the way home 
Barry insisted that I take supper with her. 

During the meal, she told her parents about our big 
victory; but there was something in the way she spoke, 
something in the worried light of her eyes, that caused 
her father to look up thoughtfully. 

“It was a well worked out campaign,” he said, “and 
you deserved to win your point.” He was silent for a 
moment, as if debating whether to say anything further 
93 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


or not; but finally he spoke again. ‘It's just possible,” 
he suggested, “that victory at the cost of something 
fine—like school spirit, for instance—isn’t such a big 
thing, after all.” 

“I’ve been wondering about that, too,” Barry 
answered. 

No one said anything more about it, however, and 
the subject was dropped. But I could see that Barry 
was deeply worried. 



CHAPTER VIII 


THE PLAY 

T HE next day, Barry and I held a conference 
•with Andy Kirk about the use of the school 
gymnasium. Andy was inclined to be resent¬ 
ful, as we had expected, and he was not particularly 
pleasant; but when Barry suggested that the girls use 
the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the boys the 
other three days, he agreed without argument. 

“You have a right to practice the same as any other 
team,” he said. “Only this year, we’ve got a fine 
chance for the county championship, and we need a 
lot of work to get into our best form. We’ll miss 
those two afternoons.” 

“As far as that goes,” Barry answered, “we have a 
chance for the championship, too.” 

But Andy only snorted. 

“Nobody cares much about girls’ teams,” he said. 
For a moment, Barry regarded him speculatively; 
then she leaned her elbows on the desk and looked fairly 
across the aisle to where he was sitting. 

“Andy,” she asked, “how do the boys really feel 
about this thing ?” 


95 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


‘‘They feel,” Andy told her, “that it’s a lot of non¬ 
sense and that you took advantage of our—our lack 
of numbers to put it across. In other words, they’re 
sore.” 

“And do you think they’ll support us—with cheers 
and things?” 

“Probably.” Andy was brutally frank. “But it 
won’t be because they want to.” 

“What will be the reason?” 

“Because you’re a Cranford team, I suppose.” 

After Andy had gone, Barry turned troubled eyes 
to me. 

“Jane,” she said doubtfully, “I’d rather not have a 
team than have the school divided as it threatens to be.” 

“But it’s Andy’s fault,” I reminded her. 

“Probably; but that won’t bring the school any 
closer together.” 

“And you’re going to give up the basketball team, 
then?” 

Barry shook her head. 

“No,” she answered, “but I’m going to send back 
the A. A.’s check for a hundred dollars. Budd gave 
it to me this morning, you know.” 

“But how are you going to get the money to finance 
the season?” 

“Somehow or other.” Barry was quiet for a long 
time, thinking. Suddenly her eyes lighted. “I’ve got 
it,” she said. “We’ll have a play.” 

“What kind of play?” 

96 



THE PLAY 


“Something to give in the auditorium. We can 
charge admission to that, and make all the money we 
need.” 

“But why are you going to all that trouble,” I per¬ 
sisted, “when you’ve already got the check?” 

“Because of the school,” Barry answered quietly. 

It occurred to me that probably Mildred Hartmore 
and some of the other girls would protest the proposed 
action. Mildred had derived a good deal of personal 
satisfaction from our victory; it proved to the boys, 
she said, that they couldn’t run everything all the 
time. But I could see where Barry was right, and I 
could see too that she was doing a big thing in sending 
back the check. It was school spirit of the highest 
type. 

Barry called a meeting of the basketball candidates 
in the auditorium on Friday afternoon. About fifteen 
girls reported, and for a time Miss Embree questioned 
them and found out about their experience and things 
like that. Then, after I had read the tentative 
schedule, Barry hurled her bomb. 

“Girls,” she said, “this morning I gave Budd Smith 
the A. A.’s check, and told him that we wouldn’t need 
it.” 

The others looked at her in stunned amazement. 

“What’s that?” Mildred asked. 

“I’ve given back the check,” Barry repeated. 

Mildred’s eyes flashed. 

“Why in the world did you do that?” she demanded. 

97 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Because if I hadn’t, the school would be divided.” 

“Humph!” Mildred was frankly disgusted. “The 
boys didn’t think anything about a divided school when 
they voted not to give us the money.” 

“So much the more reason,” Barry answered, “why 
we should give them a lesson in school spirit.” 

“But what are we going to do for expenses ?” Mary 
Todd asked. 

Barry opened a book she was holding and drew out 
a long slip of paper. 

“This,” she said, “is my father’s check for one 
hundred dollars. He’s going to lend us the money 
to carry the season.” 

“But how can we pay it back to him ?” 

“That’s what I want to talk about now,” Barry 
answered. “We’ll give a play.” 

Most of the girls accepted the idea with enthusiasm; 
and after a time, they agreed that Barry had done the 
right thing. All but Mildred. 

“The boys will think that they’ve got the upper hand 
again,” she declared. “And Andy Kirk will be more 
stuck-up than ever.” 

“I don’t think so,” Dot Howard put in. “We’re 
just showing them that we’re—er—magnanimous 
victors.” 

“Help!” Barry cried. “Where’s the dictionary?” 

Miss Embree, who had been silent up to this time, 
announced that she believed Barry had done a wise 
thing. 


98 




THE PLAY 


“And if you care to have me,” she continued, “I’ll be 
glad to coach you in your play.” 

In order to appease her wrath, Mildred was made 
manager and asked to send to several publishing houses 
for copies of catalogues. The books began to come 
on Monday, and we called a meeting for Tuesday night 
to consider the various titles and descriptions. 

In the meantime, news of the return of the check had 
spread about the school. At first, the boys were in¬ 
clined to disbelieve it; but when Budd showed them 
the check, they shook their heads doubtfully. They 
did not know what to make of it. 

“I don’t quite get the point,” Bill Woodruff said. 
“What’s the big idea behind it all ?” 

“The big idea,” Budd told him, “is that the girls 
consider school spirit something else besides yelling 
for the Cranford teams to win.” 

But whatever Andy and his followers thought, it 
was clear that much of the bitterness which had threat¬ 
ened to split the student ranks had vanished. The boys 
were still skeptical; but although they did not wholly 
admit it, the wind had been taken out of their sails by 
Barry’s action, and they could not decently talk against 
our basketball team. The fact remained, however, 
that they had gone down to defeat in an open contest 
for supremacy, that we had actually forced them to do 
something they did not want to do. No boy, I think, 
likes to be beaten, especially by girls—and the defeat 
rankled. 


99 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Barry and the rest of us, however, did not have 
much time to worry about the boys. On Tuesday 
afternoon, we held our first basketball practice, and 
when it was concluded, Miss Embree was openly en¬ 
thusiastic. 

“I don’t know anything about the other teams in this 
vicinity,” she said. “But it looks to me as if we have 
an exceptional team, one fully capable of winning the 
big majority of its games.” 

“Most of the high schools around here aren’t es¬ 
pecially strong,” Dot Howard told her. “Woodbridge 
won the county championship last year, but we didn’t 
have any team then.” 

“If we can keep our first string players eligible,” 
the coach answered, “I’m fairly sure that we can make 
a splendid showing.” Her eyes rested speculatively on 
Dot Howard. “Dot,” she asked suddenly, “how are 
you getting along in your work?” 

Our star guard laughed easily. 

“All right, I guess,” she answered indifferently. 

But Miss Embree looked a bit worried. It was 
common knowledge around the school that Dot was a 
poor student; and if, by any chance, she should be re¬ 
ported low in any two subjects, we would be compelled 
to drop her from the team. And without Dot, our 
strength would be decreased thirty per cent. 

However, the possibility of being dropped did not 
seem to bother Dot, so we decided not to cross our 
bridges until the time came, and gave most of our at- 
ioo 



THE PLAY 


tention to the selection of a play. On Tuesday night, 
about fifteen of us gathered at Barry’s home and went 
over the catalogues that Mildred had written for. For 
two hours we argued, and laughed, got angry, threat¬ 
ened, and cajoled, until finally the decision was reached 
in favor of a college play called “Drifting.” 

The cast required six girls and one boy; and it was 
the male character, as usual, which caused the dis¬ 
cussion. The man in the play was supposed to be a 
good looking chap, a varsity football player who re¬ 
sisted a big temptation in order to keep clean the name 
of his college. 

“You’ll never get any of the boys to take the part,” 
Mildred declared. “Most of them are poor actors, 
anyhow, and the other fellows will make fun of the 
one we select.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“If no one else will do it,” she answered, “we’ll get 
Budd Smith.” 

But Miss Embree smiled at that. Even by the 
widest stretch of imagination, we could not conceive of 
Budd as a college hero; and as for acting, we all ad¬ 
mitted that Budd was a joke. Nevertheless, Barry re¬ 
fused to be disheartened, and finally she persuaded the 
rest of us to accept “Drifting.” 

“The best fellow in school for the part,” Barry de¬ 
clared, “is Andy Kirk. And we’ll ask him to help 
us out to-morrow.” 

Mildred snorted. 


IOI 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“You can see him doing it, can’t you?” she asked 
scornfully. 

“I think that maybe I can,” Barry said. “We did 
the generous thing in returning the check, and Andy 
owes something to us for that.” 

We resolved to let Barry handle it, and she promised 
to see Andy after school the next day. But on Wed¬ 
nesday morning, when we entered the building, a sur¬ 
prise was in stpre for us. It seemed that the boys had 
decided to do something big themselves. 

Hugh Potter, captain of the Cranford basketball 
team, met us in the hall. 

“You girls may be interested to know,” he an¬ 
nounced, “that the fellows have voted to use our old 
suits for another year/’ 

Our mouths opened wide. 

“Do you mean to say,” Dot Howard asked, “that 
you’ve canceled the order for new uniforms?” 

“Yes,” Hugh answered, “that’s what I mean to 
say.” 

“Why did you do it?” Barry put in. 

“To show you girls that you haven’t a premium on 
school spirit.” Hugh grinned. “The old suits aren’t 
so bad, anyhow,” he added. 

Somehow, the action of the varsity basketball team 
was the one thing needed to brush away the last rem¬ 
nant of bitterness between the two factions. I do not 
mean to say that the boys became suddenly enthusiastic 
about the girls’ team, but at least they felt that they 
102 




THE PLAY 


had done as much as we had to further the interests of 
the school, and that, when the note on the athletic field 
was paid off, they would have their full share in it. 
There was no longer any envy or resentment in their 
attitude toward us; and it was a good thing for the 
school. 

Barry, however, seemed worried about something, 
and during noon hour she confided to me. 

“I had thought,” she said, that I could get Andy 
Kirk to help us out as a sort of payment for what we 
did about the money. But now that the boys have 
been equally generous, I haven’t any basis of approach¬ 
ing him.” 

“Maybe he’ll do it anyhow,” I suggested. “He 
might be flattered because we selected him.” 

“I don’t think so,” Barry answered. “It will make 
him conspicuous, you know, being the only man in the 
cast. And Andy doesn’t like to be conspicuous—in 
that way.” 

Nevertheless, she was determined to ask him, and 
when school was out, she stopped him on the way to the 
gymnasium. 

“Andy,” she said, “the girls are going to give a play 
to make money for our team, and we need some help.” 

Andy glanced up suspiciously, on his guard in an 
instant. 

“Anything I can do?” he asked politely. 

“Yes, you can take part in the show.” 

“.Who else are you asking?” 

103 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Barry gulped. 

“No one,” she said. “But we’ll have Budd Smith 
take charge of the lights, and we’ll need-” 

But Andy stopped her. 

“Do you mean you want me to be the only man in 
the play?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good night!” Andy grinned. “I’m sorry, 
Barry,” he announced, “but I wouldn’t do it for a mil¬ 
lion dollars.” 

Barry looked up at him uncertainly. 

“We thought,” she ventured, “that inasmuch as we 
sent back the A. A.’s check, you’d be willing to do 
something in return.” 

“We’ve already done that,” Andy answered. “Our 
own money went back into the coffers, you know, and 
that incident’s closed.” 

“But we need a man,” Barry pleaded. 

“Well, there are a lot of them in school. Help 
yourself.” 

“He has to be good looking.” 

Andy grinned. 

“Why bother with me, then?” he asked. 

Barry knew that her diplomacy had failed. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We—we rather counted 
on you, Andy.” 

“I’m sorry, too. But I just can’t do it, Barry. The 
other fellows would have the time of their lives. Why 
can’t you get another play?” 

104 




THE PLAY 


“Maybe we’ll have to.” Barry’s lips set resolutely. 
“But we’re not going to if we can help it.” 

She did a strange thing then; she put the matter up 
to Budd Smith. 

Budd hemmed and hawed, and tried to make some 
excuses; but finally, because he was Budd, he promised 
to be the college hero. None of the girls, however, 
went into ecstasies over it. 

“The play will be a farce,” Mildred declared. 
“Budd Smith can’t act any better than a wooden post.” 

The first rehearsal proved the truth of Mildred’s 
contention. Budd, true to his word, reported for the 
initial reading; and Miss Embree gave him a copy of 
the play and told him to glance over it while waiting 
for his 1 cue. Budd, grinning embarrassedly, accepted 
the book and went over in a corner, but he did not 
read very far before open rebellion gripped him. 

“Gee!” he protested, coming over to the center of 
the stage, “I couldn’t get away with this thing in a 
thousand years.” 

“You promised,” Barry reminded him. 

“Yes,” he agreed, and went back to his corner 
again. But he was, I think, the most miserable and 
unhappy boy in the United States. 

When it came time for him to read his part, he held 
his book straight before him and confronted Barry, 
who had the leading feminine role, with determined 
eyes. 

“I am looking for Miss Zelda Bennett,” he read. 

105 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


He was supposed to say it graciously, with a smile 
upon his lips and his head inclined in courteous ques¬ 
tion. Instead, he blurted it out as if he were a detec¬ 
tive on the trail of a noted criminal. We smiled, in 
spite of ourselves, and Mildred Hartmore laughed 
openly. Miss Embree shook her head gently. 

'‘Not quite that way, Budd,” she suggested. “Just 
say it as you would if you were asking a group of 
high school girls about Barry.” 

But with Budd, acting was one thing, and being 
natural was another. He returned to the side of the 
stage and advanced again, his lips set in a straight 
line of determination, his eyes blazing. 

“I am looking for Miss Zelda Bennett,” he declared 
stiltedly. 

We knew, then, that he would never do; but we did 
not want to hurt his feelings and so we permitted him 
to stumble through the first act as best he could. 
When finally Miss Embree announced that we would 
do no more that afternoon, Budd wiped the perspira¬ 
tion from his forehead, and looked over at Barry 
pleadingly. 

“I’d give a million dollars to get out of this,” he said. 

“Maybe you will,” Barry told him; but when Budd 
demanded eagerly to know what she meant, she refused 
to say anything further. But after supper that night, 
she took me with her to Andy Kirk’s house. 

“Andy,” she began without preliminaries, “a week 
or so ago you told Budd Smith that if he ever got in 
106 



THE PLAY 


a tight place and needed you to help him out, to let 
you know, didn’t you?” 

Andy nodded, his eyes questioning. 

“Well,” Barry continued, “Budd’s in a tight place 
now. He’s the man in our play, and he said this after¬ 
noon that he’d give a million dollars to get out of it.” 

“Why doesn’t he quit, then?” 

“He gave us his promise to stick, and—and you 
know how Budd is.” 

“Why did you come to me?” 

“We came,” Barry said quietly, “because he needs 
help. You’ll never be able to do more for him, Andy, 
than by taking his place in the cast.” 

For a long minute, Andy was silent. Then he 
grinned. 

“I’ll hand it to you, Barry,” he said. “No matter 
how it happened, the fact remains that Budd’s in a 
hole. All right, then; I’ll be your college hero.” 

“Thank you,” Barry declared gratefully. “I knew 
you’d do it.” 

Andy grinned wryly. 

“But if any of the fellows start getting funny,” he 
announced, “they’ll wish they hadn’t.” 

When we told Budd the news, he almost collapsed 
with the sheer joy of his release. 



CHAPTER IX 
ANDY PAYS BACK 

W HEN the word went around school that 
Andy was to be the only boy in a play 
given by the girls and for the girls' bas¬ 
ketball team, there were a number of fellows who 
thought it was a big joke. Two or three days after the 
second rehearsal, when Andy showed himself as good 
as we had expected him to be, he met four of his class¬ 
mates in the hallway. They had been kept after school 
to make up chemistry problems, and when they saw 
Andy coming out of the auditorium, they grinned 
cheerfully. 

“If here doesn’t come the college hero,” one of them 
remarked. “I do believe he’s beginning to grow long 
hair.” 

Andy’s eyes blazed, and he clenched his fists angrily. 
But it was Budd Smith, who had agreed to take charge 
of our stage settings, who answered. 

“Jim,” Budd said quietly, and his cleft chin pro¬ 
truded just a fraction further than usual, “Andy’s 
doing this thing for me, and not for any one else. 
108 


ANDY PAYS BACK 


And there aren’t going to be any bright remarks about 
it.” 

Jim Norris, who was the boy who had tried to 
be funny, looked over at Budd questioningly. He 
was a big fellow, with a flushed face and rounded 
chin. 

“What are you putting your oar in for?” he de¬ 
manded. “I wasn’t saying anything to you.” 

“I know,” Budd answered. “But Pm saying some¬ 
thing to you.” 

“Just what are you saying to me?” 

“I’m telling you to cut out any bright remarks about 
this play.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“If you don’t,” Budd told him grimly, “I’ll make 
you.” 

As I’ve said before, Budd wasn’t much of a talker, 
but when he said a thing he meant it. Jim Norris, 
looking into his steady eyes, must have sensed some¬ 
thing of Budd’s purpose, for suddenly he laughed un¬ 
easily. 

“No need to get so mad about it,” he said. “I was 
only fooling, of course.” 

Budd nodded. 

“I understand,” he answered. “Only there mustn’t 
be any more fooling from any one about this play.” 

Word of Budd’s stand swept around the school, of 
course; and while Budd was not exactly a leader in 
the general sense of the word, there were few boys 
109 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


who cared to cross him when he once set his mind on 
a thing. 

After that one clash, there was nothing to interrupt 
the smooth routine of our days. The date of the play 
was set for January 16 , and we were all as busy as 
bees preparing for it, and with basketball. Shortly 
before the Christmas vacation, our basketball schedule 
was completed, and on the day on which the school 
closed, I posted the list of games on the bulletin board 
It read like this: 

Jan. 13—Roselle at home. 

Jan. 20—Garwood at Garwood. 

Jan. 27—Westfield at home. 

Feb. 3—Plainfield at home. 

Feb. 10—Linden at home. 

Feb. 17—Hyde Park at Hyde Park. 

Feb. 22—Woodbridge at home. 

Practically every girl in school looked it over and 
passed judgment. 

“Of course, it isn’t as long a schedule as the boys 
have,” Barry explained, “and we only play on Satur¬ 
days. But we’ve got every school in the county on 
the list, and if we win all our games, we will be the 
county champions.” 

“If you do,” Hugh Potter remarked. 

The varsity team, you see, was still just a bit resent¬ 
ful of our attempting to share their glory. Last year, 
no 



ANDY PAYS BACK 


when Andy had been captain, they had finished 
second to Plainfield in the county championship, and 
as their membership was still intact, they hoped to win 
the pennant during the coming season. Naturally, 
they felt as if they were entitled to the undivided sup¬ 
port of the school. There was no reason why they 
should not expect it; our girls' team really had little to 
do with them; but, somehow, they could not quite get 
over the idea that we were their rivals. 

However, things went along smoothly enough. 
Twice a week we practiced in the gymnasium, and after 
about ten days, Miss Embree picked the first team. 
Barry, of course, was given a place at center, and 
Catherine Davis and myself were the guards. Dot 
Howard, who promised to be a co-star with Barry, 
was one forward, and Mary Todd the other. All of 
us had played basketball before, and, under Miss Em- 
bree’s direction, we developed steadily. We played 
men’s rules, as did all the schools in our neighborhood, 
and there were only five members of the team. 

During Christmas vacation, even though Miss Em¬ 
bree had gone home, we reported at the school two 
afternoons a week and continued practice under Barry’s 
direction. We already understood Miss Embree’s 
system, which was different from anything we had 
known before, but we felt that we would need a good 
deal of work to master it. The boys, confident of 
their ability, did not report at the gym during vacation; 
hi 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


and when Barry spoke to Hugh Potter about it, he 
only smiled. 

“We’ve played together for three years now,” he 
boasted, “and the rest will do us good.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“It never pays to be too sure,” she said. 

During the week between Christmas and New Year, 
it snowed heavily and then it rained, so that, on the fol¬ 
lowing morning, the ground was covered with a coat¬ 
ing of glittering ice. Naturally, we turned to coasting. 

Cranford is not very hilly; but there is one long 
street on the outskirts of town that made an ideal coast¬ 
ing place. It sloped gradually from the top of the 
Boulevard to West Side Avenue, at least a quarter of 
a mile away; and as soon as we saw the condition of 
the ground, we got out our sleds and bobs and hurried 
over to Glenwood Street. 

Practically the entire high school was there, together 
with hundreds of youngsters who were always getting 
in every one’s way. After the first morning, however, 
we made things easier for all of us by chasing the 
small boys over to another street, which was just as 
good for them. It was safer that way, for trolley 
tracks ran along West Side Avenue, and it was really 
dangerous for people who did not keep a sharp look¬ 
out. But the cars came by only every half hour, and 
we felt that we were not in any great danger. 

Most of the boys used flexible flyers, and there were 
a dozen or so big bobsleds which would hold eight or 
112 



ANDY PAYS BACK 


ten persons. During the first day and well into the 
night, we were satisfied with just coasting; but on the 
second afternoon, Andy Kirk conceived the idea of 
a series of races. After a good deal of discussion, 
we decided on the events; a bobsled contest, single-sled 
races for boys and girls, and a race for boys, sitting 
on their sleds. This last race was a long-distance af¬ 
fair, with the boy who went farthest past West Side 
Avenue before stopping, the winner. 

Tom Borden, who always liked to be secretary or 
some such thing, was the judge of the finish, and Jim 
Norris the starter. Both Barry and I were on Budd 
Smith’s bob, but after a close race we lost to Hugh 
Potter and his gang. Andy Kirk won the boys’ race 
for single sleds, and Barry won the contest for girfs. 
Then came the final event. 

There were eight boys in it, and one after another 
they settled themselves on their sleds, jerked forward 
until they were started, and then flew down the long, 
ice-covered street. The majority of the spectators 
crowded around the finish line, where Tom Borden 
marked the farthest point each sled reached. We were 
so excited over the races that we forgot all about the 
trolley cars, and the usual lookout had joined the rest 
of us. 

Andy Kirk, the seventh contestant to start, did not 
stop until he was at least fifty feet past West Side 
Avenue. Budd Smith was the only other boy in the 
race; and while we all waited curiously, Budd pushed 
ii3 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


off and came shooting down toward us. Andy, for 
some reason or other, had picked up his sled and walked 
as far as the Avenue when Budd began his descent. 

Budd came gliding down the hill with the speed of an 
express train. He was bent forward, his head down so 
as not to be retarded by the wind, and his eyes were on 
the icy rut which all the sleds followed. He was, 
probably, about fifty yards from the crossroads when 
we saw Andy, who was standing near the corner, 
wave his arms wildly and call out desperately to 
Budd. 

“Slow up!” he yelled. “The trolley’s coming! 
The trolley!” 

But Budd was going so fast and was so intent on 
winning the race that I do not think he even heard 
Andy’s voice. But most of us waiting at the finish 
recognized the danger that threatened him. A trolley 
car, apparently traveling at high speed, was racing 
along the slippery tracks; and even as we turned, we 
discovered it. It was one of the Fast Line cars, going 
at least thirty miles an hour, and it was evident, after 
a single glance, that it would reach Glenwood Street 
at exactly the same time that Budd would strike the 
crossroads. 

The big majority of us were stunned into inaction; 
but I remember that Barry started to run forward and 
to yell something to Andy about stopping the car. 
And then, without a second glance at the trolley, Andy 
Kirk leaped forward and dashed toward the speeding 
114 



ANDY PAYS BACK 


Budd. He crossed the tracks in a single bound, 
dodged to one side, and, as Budd was about to sweep 
past him, he dove directly at the racing sled. 

It was like a flying tackle in football, and his shoul¬ 
der struck Budd squarely on the chest. There was a 
single shrill cry of surprise, and then the two figures 
tumbled together to the ground and rolled along ludi¬ 
crously. Budd’s sled shot forward like a catapult, and 
in another instant was smashed to useless tinder be¬ 
neath the grinding wheels of the trolley. 

The car came to a shrieking halt thirty yards away; 
and those of us who were watching, the tension having 
snapped, rushed in a body to where Budd and Andy 
were climbing to their feet. 

For a moment, Budd looked around dazedly, not 
yet comprehending what had happened. 

“Say, what’s the big idea?” he demanded. One 
knee of his trousers was torn, and there was a long red 
scratch on his forehead. 

Andy, his own face blood-streaked, laid a trembling 
hand upon Budd’s shoulder. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Not hurt, are 
you ?” 

“No!” Budd gazed curiously at the crowd of pale 
faces which surrounded him, and then, suddenly, he 
realized what Andy had done. “Did—did you knock 
me off to keep me from hitting the trolley?” he 
demanded. 

Andy nodded. 

115 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Yes,” he answered. “It was the only thing to do. 
Hope I didn’t hurt you.” 

“How about yourself?” 

“I’m all right. Only a few scratches.” 

At that moment, the motorman arrived. His face 
was red and his eyes shining. 

“Do you people realize,” he rasped, “that one of 
you was almost killed?” 

It was Budd who answered. 

“Yes,” he said, “I realize it now.” 

“There ought to be a law against coasting over the 
trolley tracks,” the man continued. “If any one had 
been hurt, the trolley company would have been blamed 
for it. This thing has got to stop.” 

“After what has just happened,” Andy told him, 
“I don’t think any of us will want to go coasting much 
more.” 

“You just bet we won’t,” Tom Borden added. 

“There ought to be a law against it.” The motor- 
man looked curiously at Budd. “You’re a lucky fel¬ 
low, young man!” he said. 

Budd turned his serious blue eyes toward Andy. 

“I’m lucky,” he answered slowly, “in the friends 
that I’ve got.” 

After a few more mutterings, the motorman and 
conductor went back to their trolley. Then Budd held 
out his hand 

“Thanks, Andy!” he said. 

That, of course, was the end of our coasting. The 
116 



ANDY PAYS BACK 


news spread around town during the late afternoon, 
and the next morning a policeman was stationed on 
Glenwood Street to see that no one used it. But we 
did not care particularly; the picture of Budd’s nar¬ 
row escape was still vividly before us. It was rather 
a strange thing that until that incident on the hill, none 
of us had quite realized how big a part Budd was play¬ 
ing in the life of the school. Quiet and unobtrusive, 
he managed, somehow, to make his presence felt; and 
the possibility of losing him had brought with it a reali¬ 
zation of how empty Cranford would have been with¬ 
out him. 

So we spent the remainder of the vacation skating 
over the rough ice of Milton Lake, practicing basket¬ 
ball, and attending the usual round of parties which 
always featured Christmas week. There was a recep¬ 
tion at the church on Thursday evening, when we all 
received boxes of candy and watched an imported 
magician do countless tricks; and on Friday night, 
Barry gave a party at her big home. We all enjoyed 
ourselves immensely, and by the time Saturday rolled 
around we were pretty well tired out. But that is al¬ 
ways the way with vacations. 

The recess ended finally, and on Tuesday we returned 
to school, glad to get back again. Our interest, of 
course, was centered on basketball, and as the first 
game was less than two weeks away, we threw ourselves 
whole-heartedly into the task of getting ready for the 
initial test. 

ii 7 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Things went along smoothly at the high school. 
Andy Kirk and Budd Smith were together continually; 
each one, during the last few weeks, probably had saved 
the other’s life, and this fact seemed to bring them to¬ 
gether, to make them chums in the truest sense of the 
word. It had formerly seemed to me that Andy was 
just a bit jealous of Budd, and while they both played 
on the same teams and went with the same crowd, there 
had been a sort of invisible barrier between them, which, 
I am sure, was all of Andy’s making. But now the bar¬ 
rier had been swept away by mutual service. 

There was a good deal of talk around the building 
about a county championship for Cranford. The boys’ 
team was composed entirely of veterans, and while they 
did not have a coach, they knew basketball in all its 
phases, and it was generally admitted even by the rival 
schools that Cranford had more than an even chance 
for the pennant. But it was always the varsity which 
was mentioned, and the girls’ team was completely 
ignored. 

Our interest was fanned to fever heat on the Friday 
following the reopening of school, when the Cranford 
Herald printed an announcement of the championship 
cups. It seems that one of the merchants in town had 
purchased two loving cups to be given to the winners of 
the county championship for both the boys’ and the 
girls’ teams. On Monday morning, the school was buz¬ 
zing with excitement; groups of students gathered in 
the hallways and discussed the offer with eager voices. 

118 




ANDY PAYS BACK 


'‘The cups are on exhibition in the windows of the 
department store,” Hugh Potter announced. “And 
they’re wonders.” 

“Nothing like that has ever been given before,” Tom 
Borden put in. “I guess a nice loving cup in the tro¬ 
phy case of the school will look pretty good, eh?” 

“And the reason a Cranford man offered it,” Hugh 
continued, “is that he knew it would be sure to stay 
right here in town.” 

“There are two cups, you know,” Barry reminded 
him. 

“Yes.” Hugh nodded. “But, of course, it’s the 
boys’ cup that we’re talking about. And you just 
watch the old varsity come through.” 

Barry smiled. 

“Whatever else happens,” she said, “Cranford High 
must win one of those trophies.” 

But we knew that it wasn’t the varsity cup which she 
had in mind. 




CHAPTER X 


THE SKATING RACE 

T HERE was no basketball game scheduled for 
the following Saturday; and, as the weather 
had turned cold, Barry and I drove up to Mil- 
ton Lake on Friday afternoon, where we found a large 
crowd of high school students. When we arrived, the 
boys were talking about arranging for some races the 
next day, and Andy, who was in fine spirits, turned to 
Barry with twinkling eyes. 

“It's too bad, Barry,” he declared evenly, “that you 
aren’t a boy. You could go in the races then.” 

Barry accepted the challenge instantly. 

“I’m not so sure,” she said, “that we won’t have some 
races of our own. The ice is free, you know.’ 

“Yes,” Andy answered, “except in summer. Then 
it costs eighty cents a hundred pounds.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Barry advised him. “I’ve 
never worked on an ice wagon.” 

Budd Smith, sitting beside Andy, chuckled loudly. 
“Just for that,” he said, “we ought to challenge the 
high-school girls to a race.” 

Andy grinned. 


120 


THE SKATING RACE 


‘‘There wouldn’t be anything in it,” he contended. 

“You’d have to give us a handicap, of course,” Barry 
suggested, ignoring Andy’s remark. 

The eyes of several of the other boys lighted eagerly. 

“Why not have a race?” Tom Borden demanded. 
“We can pick out five girls of the school, and five boys, 
and arrange the thing on a handicap basis.” 

“We’re willing,” Barry answered instantly. 

Andy Kirk nodded thoughtfully. 

“We can pick our team right now,” he said. “Budd 
Smith, Tom Borden, Bill Woodruff, Hugh Potter, and 
myself. How about you, Barry?” 

Barry hesitated for a moment. The boys of the 
school, she knew, were speedier skaters than the girls; 
and if Andy and his followers should win, they would 
have a lot of fun about it. Still, Barry realized that it 
would not do to refuse the challenge. 

“All right,” she said, “we’ll select Jane Barr, Mary 
Todd, Catherine Davis, Dot Howard and me.” 

“Sounds like a roll call,” Budd put in. “How about 
the length of the race and the handicap?” 

“We’ll race you up to the Stone Bridge and back,” 
Andy suggested. “That’s about four miles, and we’ll 
give you a head-start to Mower’s Island, about a 
quarter mile up the lake.” 

Barry nodded. 

“How about the rules ?” she asked. 

“Let’s make it both a team and an individual affair,” 
Andy said. “We’ll each chip in a dollar for entrance 
121 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


fee, and then we can have a prize, a cup or something, 
for the winner, and a school pennant for team points.” 

“How are you going to count the points?” Dot 
Howard inquired. 

“One for the first, two for second, and so on down 
the line,” Andy answered. “The team with the lowest 
score wins the pennant.” 

“Suits me,” Barry agreed. “What time do we 
start?” 

“Three o’clock to-morrow afternoon.” Andy 
grinned into his schoolmates’ shining eyes. “It sure 
will be a lot of fun.” 

“And with the handicap,” Budd Smith put in, “the 
chances ought to be about even.” 

Barry was frankly dubious. After the boys had 
left for a trip to the head of the lake, she remained by 
the fire, her eyes thoughtful. A quarter-mile handicap 
in a four-mile race was generous enough, to be sure, 
but the boys of Cranford were all good skaters; and 
Andy Kirk was especially fast. Of the girls, Barry 
was by far the best; but I think she realized that she 
was no match for Andy. 

“We’ll have to skate faster than we’ve ever skated 
before,” she said. Then her lips closed resolutely. 
“But the only thing to do is to do it,” she added. 
“Come on, Jane.” 

The rest of the high-school students were engaged in 
a game of “crack-the-whip” on the far side of the lake. 
Barry and I did not join them. 

122 



THE SKATING RACE 


“I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to skate 
over the course,” Barry explained. 

For a time we glided silently over the smooth ice. 
At the spot where the river turned into the lake, we 
swerved to the left, circling the barren island which 
loomed uninvitingly before us. The narrow channel 
on the far side of the island offered a shorter route, 
but the ice there was seldom frozen hard enough to be 
entirely free from danger. 

“I think,” Barry said finally, “that we’re going to be 
beaten to-morrow.” 

“We probably will be,’* I agreed, “but at least the 
boys can’t say that we were afraid to race them. And 
I’m not so sure,” I added, “that you can’t beat Andy 
with your handicap.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“Possibly,” she said, “I can come in second. But 
Andy is fast, you know.” 

The river narrowed as we followed its winding 
course. On both sides, wooded banks, thirty or more 
feet in height, fell to the water’s edge; and, occasion¬ 
ally, we passed a farmhouse, seemingly deserted, its 
gabled roof glittering in the rays of the afternoon sun. 

When finally we reached the Stone Bridge, we 
climbed to the wide railing and rested contentedly. 

“There’s nothing quite so good as winter,” Barry 
declared. “I—I wouldn’t give it up for all the sum¬ 
mers in the world.” 

But I was thinking of the race. 

123 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“If Andy wins,” I said irrelevantly, “he’ll crow over 
us for the next two months.” 

Barry’s eyes flashed determinedly. 

“If he wins,” she supplemented. 

But in spite of her brave words, she reached the lake 
the next day frankly doubtful of the outcome. Budd 
Smith, as treasurer, had collected the entrance fee 
from each contestant and had brought with him the 
two prizes; a small silver loving cup, and a flaming 
scarlet banner of Cranford High School. 

“There are the trophies, Barry,” Andy advised her, 
as she joined the group near the dam. “We’re won¬ 
dering what you are going to do with the cup after 
you win it.” 

“I’m going to fill it with ice coffee and drink to the 
health of a good sportsman,” Barry answered quietly. 
“And—I’m wondering what his name will be.” 

Andy flushed a bit at that, and relapsed into silence ; 
and throughout the preliminary arrangements, he said 
little. But when finally the girls arose to skate to 
their own starting point, I noticed that his square jaw 
was set and his eyes shone resolutely. I knew then 
that Andy was going to win if he could possibly do 
so. 

We skated slowly, conserving our strength, until 
we reached Mower’s Island, at the head of the lake. 
Then Barry turned to us. 

“I think the best thing to do is for each girl to skate 
her own race,” she said. “We’ll keep together if we 
124 



THE SKATING RACE 


can, but if any one wants to go ahead and leave the 
others, she’s at liberty to do so.” 

‘‘I would suggest,” Mary Todd put in, “that you 
go right out from the start, Barry. You’re much 
faster than any of us except Jane, and we’d only hold 
you back.” 

Barry nodded. 

“It’s the only way to beat Andy,” she agreed. 

Dot Howard smiled grimly. 

“And whatever else you do, Barry,” she said, “be 
sure to beat him.” 

There did not seem to be anything else to talk about. 
The rules of the contest were simple enough; each 
entry was required to skate to the Stone Bridge, where 
Ted Barkley, one of the high school boys, would be 
waiting to check us off; and then turn and get back 
to the finish line as soon as possible. 

“Whatever else happens,” Barry said, “we must 
all be sure to finish. Are you ready?” 

The other girls nodded, and Barry, turning, waved 
her hand in the direction of the dam, where the boys 
were waiting. In another moment, we were off. 

Barry, taking the lead according to the agreement, 
struck out with even, gliding strokes which carried 
her over the ice swiftly, but without apparent effort. 
She wore a heavy brown skirt, white knitted sweater, 
with hat to match; and she skated with hands behind 
her, a graceful figure in the glow of the winter’s sun. 

I was the only one able to follow her pace; but 

125 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


neither of us said anything, for our thoughts were con¬ 
centrated on the task at hand, and on the grim necessity 
of winning, if possible, from Andy Kirk. Gradually, 
as we continued our even pace, we drew farther away 
from the others, until after a time only the swish of 
our own skates against the crystal ice broke the silence 
of the snow-covered fields and woods. 

Grimly we followed the many windings of the 
stream, expending no useless effort, conserving our 
strength for the last half mile, when we knew the 
grueling test would come. We judged that if we 
could maintain our present rate of speed, even Andy 
could not catch us until we were well along on the 
return journey. Then, of course, Barry would draw 
away from me and make a dash for the finish line. 
But she knew that if Andy once drew even with her, 
the result of the race would be a foregone conclusion. 
Her only chance lay in keeping ahead of him from the 
beginning to the end of the contest. 

Neither of us was tired when finally we came in 
sight of the Stone Bridge. Barry spoke then. 

“Well, we’re half through, anyhow,” she said, “and 
Andy hasn’t caught up yet.” 

At the bridge, Ted Barkley greeted us smilingly. 

“You’re in the lead,” he called encouragingly. 
“Good work! keep it up!” 

Barry, touching the bridge with outstretched fingers, 
wheeled and began the homeward journey. And I 
hung on grimly. On the third turn we passed Mary 
126 



THE SKATING RACE 


Todd, skating steadily, and a hundred yards farther 
on, Dot Howard hove into view. 

“The boys haven’t caught us yet,” Dot panted. 
“Keep it up!” 

Barry, nodding, settled her hat more tightly over 
her chestnut hair, and continued to set an even, steady 
pace. In another moment, however, there came to our 
straining ears the sound of skates cutting the surface 
of the ice; and, looking up, we discovered Andy Kirk 
speeding toward us. Directly in back of Andy, and 
taking his pace, was Budd Smith. 

As they passed, the two boys looked up and grinned 
into our eager eyes. 

“Good work!” Budd called over his shoulder; and 
then they were gone. 

As far as we could figure, we were still between 
two and three hundred yards ahead of Andy. In the 
first two miles, the star skater of the school had not 
yet overcome one half of our handicap, and if we 
could keep up our pace. . . . 

I had begun to tire by now, and I knew that pretty 
soon I would be forced to drop back and let Barry go 
on alone. After a minute or two we passed Catherine 
Davis and a hundred yards further on, the remainder 
of the boys. We knew then that unless a miracle in¬ 
tervened, the girls would lose the team prize; but we 
had already counted upon that. The silver loving cup 
was the one thing that mattered. 

When we were still some distance from the lake 
127 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


itself, I began to grow increasingly conscious of a 
feeling of weariness. So, with an added effort, I 
skated beside Barry and turned to her. 

“I’ll have to drop back now,” I said. “Go ahead 
and win.” 

“Good luck, Jane,” she answered, and glided ahead. 

She told me later what happened after that. She 
was tired but by no means exhausted, and with a half 
mile to go, she began to hope, for the first time, for 
victory. And then, suddenly, she was aware of the 
swish of skates behind her, and, looking back, she 
discovered the solitary figure of a boy less than fifty 
yards away. It was Andy Kirk. 

Andy cut down the distance between them with sur¬ 
prising quickness; and almost before Barry real¬ 
ized it, he was at her side. Turning, he grinned 
provokingly. 

“Maybe, Barry,” he said, “you won’t be drinking 
your ice coffee, after all.” 

Before she had time to answer, he had skated ahead, 
drawing into a lead which Barry knew she could never 
overcome. 

She watched almost angrily as Andy skated easily 
before her. He was taking his time now, assured 
of the victory. With a final wave of his hand, he 
passed out of sight on the south shore of Mower’s 
Island. 

And then Barry received her inspiration. Andy had 
followed the south channel of the lake, which swept 
128 



THE SKATING RACE 


around in a wide semicircle; but there was an opening 
on the north side of the island which pointed straight 
for the dam. The ice there, of course, was not so 
thick, but Barry did not stop to think of that. By 
taking that course, she knew that she could cut off at 
least one hundred yards. And the finish line was less 
than a quarter of a mile away. She could still win. 

With her eyes flashing determinedly, Barry turned 
sharply to the left and skated through the narrow, 
unused channel. Andy was out of sight, already 
counting the victory won. He would not suspect what 
she had done and would take things easily until she 
swept into sight again. 

The thin ice of the channel creaked and groaned as 
Barry sped over it; but it did not break. After a 
few seconds, she rounded a turn and glimpsed the 
waiting crowds at the dam. The sight of them urged 
her to renewed efforts, gave her the needed courage 
for her final drive. With arms waving, she glided 
out upon the main portion of the lake; and as she did 
so, she saw, over her shoulder, the speeding figure of 
Andy Kirk. But he was at least seventy-five yards in 
the rear. 

She says that she does not remember very clearly 
those last three hundred yards. Sounds of hoarse 
cheering came to her dimly, her skates seemed, 
strangely, to catch in the ice and threaten to throw 
her. Behind her, the figure of Andy Kirk drew nearer 
and nearer, until it seemed as if he would surely over- 
129 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


take her. The end of the race seemed miles away, her 
limbs ached with weariness, her heavy skirt impeded 
her efforts. But she kept on, desperately, grimly; and 
suddenly, the finish line loomed before her, and she 
swept triumphantly across it into the waiting arms of 
one of the other girls. 

A half hour later, when the last of the skaters had 
straggled down the lake, and the boys had been 
awarded the pennant, Andy Kirk picked up the small 
silver cup and walked over to where Barry was sitting 
before the roaring fire. 

“Barry,” he said quietly, and there was no resent¬ 
ment in his voice, “this cup is yours; and you can 
drink ice coffee in it whenever you want to.” 

Barry, accepting the trophy, looked for a moment 
into Andy’s shining eyes. 

“Maybe,” she said, “I shouldn’t have taken the 
short-cut.” 

But Andy only grinned. 

“According to the agreement,” he answered, 
“you were perfectly within your rights.” His grin 
broadened. “Races,” he added, “are sometimes won 
by brains as well as by speed.” 

Barry looked up gratefully. 

“Thanks, Andy,” she said softly. “And the first 
toast out of the new cup is going to be to the health 
of a good sportsman—to you.” 




CHAPTER XI 


TWO SETBACKS 

O N January io the boys’ team played its first 
game against North Amboy and won by an 
overwhelming score. Their opponents were 
not in the county league, but they had already held 
Westfield to a two-point victory, and the school was 
elated. 

“It's just as we said,” Tom Borden declared happily. 
“We might just as well pin the old championship 
emblem on the bulletin board right now.” 

There was no denying the fact that the boys had a 
good team. Andy Kirk, at center, was probably the 
best player in the league, and Captain Hugh Potter 
was one of the fastest forwards I have ever seen. 
Budd Smith, at guard, stuck to his man like a leech, 
and he had a good side partner in Bill Woodruff. Bill, 
besides having a keen eye for field baskets, was the 
team’s foul shooter, and his accuracy from the fifteen- 
foot mark was remarkable. Tom Borden, only a 
mediocre player, completed the five; but Tom fitted in 
well with the others and none of the substitutes was 
nearly so good in all-around ability. If the team had 
any weakness at all, it was a lack of second string 

131 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


players, but the regulars expected to take part in all 
the games, and no one worried much. 

As for us, our big event, of course, was the first 
contest with Roselle, scheduled for the following 
Saturday. The boys were listed to play at Linden on 
that day, and we were to have the gymnasium all to 
ourselves. 

Hugh Potter was inclined to look upon it as some¬ 
thing of a joke. 

'‘You’ll find,” he said, “that there won’t be a dozen 
people here outside of the members of the school. No¬ 
body cares much about watching girls play basketball.” 

But Hugh’s prediction proved to be all wrong. 
When we trotted out upon the floor for preliminary 
practice, the balconies were crowded, and the cheer 
that greeted us equaled in volume anything that had 
yet been heard in the Cranford gymnasium. Tom 
Borden, regular cheer leader, was at Linden with the 
varsity, and Mildred Hartmore had taken his place. 

“A long yell for the team,” she shrilled. 

And the volume of sound that followed must have 
been heard in the center of the town. 

Very little need be said about the game itself. In 
the very first minute, Barry scored a goal from directly 
underneath the basket, and when the whistle blew for 
the end of the half, the count was twenty-one to three 
in favor of Cranford. 

I think that most of the spectators attended the game 
chiefly out of idle curiosity, but when we continued to 
132 



TWO SETBACKS 


pile up the score, they began to realize that the girls' 
team of their home town was playing real basketball; 
and before the game was ended they were wildly 
enthusiastic over our prospects. 

After we had won, forty to eight, Mr. Albertson, the 
local merchant who had offered the cups, came down 
to the floor of the gym and openly congratulated us. 

“I had no idea," he said, “that more than one of 
the cups would come to Cranford. But now I am 
confident that the town will keep both of them." 

If, on the following Monday, we had asked the boys 
for a hundred dollars to finance the season, they would 
have given it to us without question; public sentiment 
would have compelled them to do it. But we had 
already resolved to secure the money in another way, 
and the best that the boys could do was to buy tickets 
for our play, which they did almost unanimously. 

For the next three days, basketball was slighted; 
but you know how it is with a high school play. There 
were costumes to make, rehearsals to attend, and a 
hundred details to be taken care of. Under* Miss 
Embree’s direction, we worked like beavers, while 
Budd Smith spent long hours with the electrical fix¬ 
tures and stage settings, and Tom Borden organized 
his corps of ushers and ticket takers. We were re¬ 
leased from studies on Thursday afternoon, and spent 
the entire time in the auditorium; and by the time 
Thursday night rolled around we were on the very crest 
of intense excitement. 


133 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


But the play was a big success, due in no small 
measure to the acting of Andy Kirk as the only male 
character in the cast; and when, after the appreciative 
audience had filed out of the building, Tom announced 
that we had cleared almost two hundred dollars, we 
decided that the effort had been more than worth while. 
The girls of the high school had “come through” with 
flying colors. 

On Saturday, we were scheduled to play our first 
game away from home, against Garwood; and on 
Friday morning, Hugh P’otter offered us the gymna¬ 
sium for practice. 

“You’ve been working so hard on the play,” he 
said, “that you didn’t get in any session on Thursday. 
We thought perhaps you’d like to put in an hour or 
so to-day.” 

It was mighty fine of him to make the offer, and 
Barry accepted it. 

“Do you know,” she remarked, after we had finished 
our practice, “I think that the boys are beginning to 
be just a little proud of us.” 

Nevertheless, we were worried when we gathered 
in front of the school to make the trip to Garwood in 
automobiles. We had never played away from home 
before, even with the “Y” team, and we were not sure 
how we would react to strange conditions. Just be¬ 
fore we started, however, Miss Embree called us to¬ 
gether and talked to us. 

“The test of a good team,” she said, “is its record 
134 




TWO SETBACKS 


away from its own court. You’ll be playing on a dif¬ 
ferent floor to-day, and the crowd will not be cheering 
for you. But if you simply apply all the basketball 
knowledge that you have, there is nothing to fear. 
You have a better team than Garwood, and your school 
expects you to win. Now let’s forget our nervousness, 
and do what is expected of us.” 

We found the Garwood gymnasium smaller than 
our own, but the gallery was well filled and two or 
three of the spectators tried to be funny at our expense. 
After the game started, however, they lost most of 
their sense of humor, for we scored twelve points in 
the first five minutes, and in spite of the strange bas¬ 
kets, won the contest by a thirty-two to eleven count. 
When we returned home, we found that the boys had 
beaten Hyde Park by an overwhelming score, and 
another rung on the ladder leading to the champion¬ 
ship had been mounted. 

To say that the school was enthusiastic is hardly 
adequate. Even Mr. Meyers spoke about our success 
in morning assembly, and the local paper printed long 
accounts of the game, with a separate column of com¬ 
ments under the heading “In the Field of Sports.” 

The boys of the high school will 
have to look out for their laurels, 

one of the paragraphs read, 

or the girls will be taking the wreaths 
from their manly brows. 

135 







BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


But Andy Kirk and his followers were not a bit 
jealous of us. They were out for the championship 
cup themselves, and in a fair way toward winning it; 
and they would not begrudge us our measure of praise, 
if we too should finish the season undefeated. Only 
Mildred Hartmore, of all the school, was inclined to be 
skeptical. 

"It's all right, of course,” she declared, “when 
everybody is winning; but if the boys should happen 
to lose a game or two, and we should keep on with our 
victories, you’d see how much they think about us.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“After all,” she said, “it’s the school that counts 
more than anything else; and if we can bring honor 
to the school, the boys will stand behind us. You 
wait and see.” 

There did not seem to be any need to worry about the 
varsity losing its games, however, for the next three 
contests went to Cranford by wide margins. In the 
meantime, we had beaten Westfield, twenty-six to 
ten; and when the time for mid-year examinations 
rolled around, the records of both teams were untar¬ 
nished by defeat. 

Exams, however, took our minds away from basket¬ 
ball for a few days. It was a crucial time, especially 
for the members of the basketball teams, for if any of 
the players should be flunked in two subjects, it would 
mean that he, or she, would be ineligible to represent 
the school. 


136 



TWO SETBACKS 


We went around the building that week with 
anxious eyes and worried faces, but when Saturday 
arrived, all of the players announced themselves as con¬ 
fident that they had passed, and we entered the double- 
header with Plainfield with all of our former spirit 
and enthusiasm. 

Plainfield was the largest school in the county, and 
their girls’ team was as yet undefeated. We played 
the preliminary game, with the boys’ contest following; 
and although the visitors gave us our hardest fight, 
we managed to squeeze out the victory by a score of 
eighteen to fourteen. We knew, then, that only 
Woodbridge stood between us and the championship, 
for both Hyde Park and Linden were notoriously 
weak. 

The boys, taking inspiration from our performance, 
played splendidly in the following game, and defeated 
the larger school by a clean ten points. After the 
contest, we all went down to the Candy Kitchen and 
indulged in the luxury of chocolate ice cream. 

“It’s all over now but the shouting,” Hugh Potter 
declared. “We’ve; only got three more games to 
play, and, of those, Woodbridge is the only hard 
one.” 

“It’s the same with us,” Barry announced. “Hyde 
Park and Linden will be easy.” 

And then, just when prospects were the brightest 
for a double championship, the results of the examina¬ 
tions were made known. Dot Howard had failed in 
137 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


two subjects, and Bill Woodruff had been flunked in 
solid geometry and Spanish. 

Gloom spread like a blanket over the school. At 
first, we were too stunned to say anything; and then, 
because we were only human, we began to blame the 
faculty. 

“Just when everything was fine,” Bill Woodruff 
complained angrily, “the teachers have to step in and 
spoil things. I know I passed those subjects, I know 
I did.” 

Andy Kirk was beside himself with mingled rage 
and disappointment. 

“We might just as well hand Woodbridge the cup 
now,” he said bitterly. “But it isn’t their team that 
beat us, it’s our own faculty.” 

Mildred Hartmore, of course, stepped in and made 
one of her tactless remarks. 

“If Bill Woodruff had put half the time on lessons 
that he did on basketball,” she snapped, “he wouldn’t 
have been stuck.” 

Andy, as usual, flared up instantly. 

“Bill did study,” he replied. “It isn’t his fault that 
he got stuck.” 

Barry remained silent throughout the discussion. 
We could see, though, that she was hard hit by the an¬ 
nouncement. This was her last year at Cranford, 
and it was one of her big ambitions to win the cham¬ 
pionship cup. But without Dot Howard, we could 
not do it, for Dot was one of the best players on the 
138 




TWO SETBACKS 


team, and there were no substitutes one half so good. 

Andy and Hugh faced practically the same situation. 
In their case, however, Bill Woodruff was the team’s 
foul shooter, and in every game he had counted at 
least ten points by means of free throws. None of 
the other players had practiced much in foul shooting, 
and his absence was bound to weaken the varsity at 
least thirty per cent. 

There seemed, however, little that we could do. 
By school regulations each of the ineligible players 
was permitted to take reexaminations within two 
weeks, but we did not place much hope upon that— 
until Barry took a hand. 

But on Monday afternoon, while the boys were 
still bewailing their fate, Barry called the members 
of the girls’ team together. It was a long-faced crew 
which greeted her. 

“Girls,” she said, “we have three more games on 
our schedule, and two of them we can win with¬ 
out Dot. But we need Dot in the final game with 
Woodbridge, and it’s up to us to see that we get 
her.” 

“But she’s been stuck,” Catherine Davis answered 
disconsolately. 

“Yes, but she has a chance to get back if she passes 
her reexams.” 

“It’s too short a time,” Catherine persisted. “No 
one ever tries those reexams.” 

“But Dot’s going to.” Barry’s eyes shone reso- 
139 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


lutely. “Dot,” she asked, “are you willing to work 
every night with me on Latin and History ?” 

The deposed player nodded listlessly. 

“We’ll do it, then.” Barry turned to us. “There 
are other ways to win for the school besides on the 
basketball court,” she announced quietly, “and one of 
them is to abide by the rules and take our medicine 
without whining. To-day’s the fifth; if Dot passes 
her reexams on the nineteenth, she’ll be eligible to play 
against Woodbridge. And she's going to pass them ” 

Somehow, Barry’s words brushed away the gloom 
which had enveloped us. We realized, after she had 
spoken, that there was still a chance for the county 
championship—a championship which would be won 
in the classroom as well as on the basketball court. 
Even Dot Howard caught the enthusiasm. 

“So help me, girls,” she said, “I’ll work as I’ve 
never worked before.” 

Naturally, we told the boys of our decision, but 
they were still “sore” because of what had happened, 
and they took our announcement indifferently. 

“Two weeks is too short a time for Bill to pull up,” 
Hugh Potter said. “And anyhow, ‘Doc’ Oliver, the 
math teacher, is down on him. He wouldn’t put him 
through in a thousand years.” 

We attempted to explain to him, but Hugh was in 
no frame of mind to listen to us, so finally we desisted. 
But we hated to see the boys give up so easily; it was 
no way for prospective champions to act. 

140 



TWO SETBACKS 


Only Budd Smith, of all of them, took the setback 
without comment. Budd, whenever he had the op¬ 
portunity, practiced foul shooting. 

We played one of our substitutes, Edith Eliott, in 
Dot’s position, and continued our practice. In the 
Linden game the following Saturday, we won by the 
score of eighteen to twelve, and the boys, playing 
the weak Jamesburg team, managed to keep their 
record clear. It was after that game that Bill Wood¬ 
ruff woke up. 

“Maybe,” he said, “if I study hard all next week, I 
can pass the reexams, after all.” 

But the rest of us knew that it was too late, even 
though Andy Kirk promised to tutor him. One week 
is a mighty short time in which to make up the work 
of a term. 

On the seventeenth, both teams won again, and then 
we faced the crisis of the season. Dot and Bill spent 
every available hour at their studies, and the basketball 
teams settled down to the hardest kind of work. But 
we knew, even though no one mentioned the fact, that 
the Woodbridge games would really be played in the 
Senior room on Monday afternoon. If Dot and Bill 
could pass their exams, we would win; otherwise, sure 
defeat awaited us. 

At one o’clock on Monday, the two ineligible players 
reported for their tests. Barry grasping Dot’s hand, 
looked beseechingly into the other girl’s troubled eyes. 

“Good luck!” she said. 



CHAPTER XII 


THE CHAMPIONSHIP 

E VERY member of both basketball squads 
waited in the gymnasium until four o'clock, 
when Dot and Bill joined us. 

“How did you make out?" Barry asked eagerly. 
Dot Howard said nothing, but Bill Woodruff 
grinned confidently. 

‘’‘Killed them, I think," he declared. “Answered 
every question." 

“How about you, Dot?" 

“I don’t know. About an even chance, I guess." 
The boys, of course, were jubilant. If Bill had 
answered all his questions, he probably got through, 
they argued; and that meant that he would play against 
Woodbridge on Thursday afternoon. The girls, how¬ 
ever, were still worried; but there was nothing we 
could do except wait until the evening, when Mr. 
Meyers had promised to telephone the results to Barry. 

After supper, a crowd of us, both boys and girls, 
gathered at Barry’s home to await the word of the 
principal. When eight o’clock came and there was 
still no message, Andy Kirk stood up and began pacing 
142 


THE CHAMPIONSHIP 


the floor, his hands in his pockets and his forehead 
creased in a troubled frown. 

“Don’t take it so hard, Andy,” Barry told him. 
“Even though we do lose out, we at least have the 
satisfaction of knowing that we did our best.” 

But Andy shook his head. 

“You girls did,” he answered, “but the rest of us 
were so pigheaded that we waited a week before Bill 
got down to work. And if he does get stuck, it’s no¬ 
body’s fault but our own.” 

That was an unusual speech for Andy to make. 
Generally, he was the last person in the world to ad¬ 
mit himself in the wrong, and we regarded him won- 
deringly. It seemed, somehow, as if Andy had 
changed during the past few weeks. Suddenly, I 
found myself feeling sorry for him. 

“Never mind, Andy,” I said, “every cloud has its 
silver lining, you know.” 

“But it’s hard to see it sometimes,” he answered 
quietly. 

Then the telephone bell rang, and Barry picked up 
the receiver. When she turned to us again, her eyes 
were somber. 

“Dot has passed in both of her reexams,” she an¬ 
nounced, “but Bill has been flunked again in solid 
geometry.” 

For a moment, no one spoke; then, Andy Kirk 
grinned hopelessly. 

“There goes the championship,” he said. 

143 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Nevertheless, on the afternoon of Washington’s 
Birthday, the school gymnasium was crowded to its 
doors. In the narrow quarters of the girls’ locker 
room, we could hear the hum of excited voices, punc¬ 
tuated now and then by brisk cheers from the rival 
rooters. The two Woodbridge teams, both unde¬ 
feated in county league games, had brought a host 
of followers with them. Whether they won or lost, 
they would not be lacking in supporters. 

Because of the fact that one of the visiting girls 
would not be able to reach Cranford until four o’clock, 
it had been decided to play the boys’ contest first. 
That meant that we would be required to wait an hour 
or more before starting, but in a way, it was a good 
thing. 

“It will leave the issue clearly up to us,” Barry said. 
“If the boys win, then we can try our hardest to 
follow their example; but if they lose, we will have 
to play all the harder to bring at least one cup to the 
school.” 

Grimly, we followed her out upon the court and 
took our places on the single row of benches which 
lined the wall. The boys were already practicing, 
with Glenn Charles, substitute, in Bill’s place at guard. 
Glenn was obviously nervous, almost overcome by the 
responsibility which had been thrust upon him. He 
was at best only a mediocre player, and in his present 
frame of mind it was apparent to all of us that he 
would be of little use to the team. Barry, her eyes 
144 




THE CHAMPIONSHIP 


anxious, walked across the floor to where Andy Kirk 
was standing. 

“Andy,” she said, “Glenn needs bucking up. Talk 
to him a bit.” 

Andy, who was captain of the team in everything 
but name, drew the substitute player aside. 

“Glenn,” he announced quietly, “you mustn’t take 
this thing too seriously. If you just do your best, 
there isn’t anything else that matters. Forget that 
we’re playing Woodbridge, forget that winning means 
the championship, and just stick to your man like glue 
and let the game look out for itself.” 

The other boy nodded gratefully, and the worried 
look went out of his eyes. 

“Thanks, Andy,” he answered. “I’ll give all that I 
have, and let it go at that.” 

He seemed more composed when he returned to the 
practice, and when the school gave him a cheer, his 
lips set determinedly and his fists clenched. We knew, 
then, that he would play at least up to his usual 
standard. 

The game started finally, after the usual prelimi¬ 
naries had been concluded, and it was apparent, after 
the first five minutes, that the contest was going to be 
a hard and a close one. Even without Bill Woodruff, 
the Cranford team was good; and had we played any 
other school but Woodbridge, we could have overcome 
our handicap easily. But the Woodbridge players 
were experienced and fast, and they were determined 
145 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


to win the championship if it was physically possible 
to do so. They threw themselves into the play with 
a spirit and determination which was not to be denied; 
and although the Cranford boys fought back valiantly, 
the visitors gradually forged into the lead, and held it. 

With five minutes of the first half still to play, 
Woodbridge had counted sixteen points to Cranford’s 
twelve. From the sound of the first whistle, the gym¬ 
nasium had been in an uproar; cheer after cheer shook 
the rafters of the building, the followers of both teams 
leaned forward eagerly in their places and shrilled out 
words of encouragement and advice. 

Once, when there was a brief lull, Barry gathered 
the members of the girls’ team together. 

“Let’s give them a yell,” she suggested, “and show 
them that we are behind them.” 

An instant later, our shrill voices pierced the silence: 

Rah, bow-wow-wow, Cranford, 

Team, team, Team ! 

For some reason or other, the sound of that cheer 
inspired the boys to even greater effort. We saw their 
jaws tighten and their muscles grow tense; and a 
minute later, Budd Smith tossed a neat goal almost 
from the center of the floor. Andy, leaping into posi¬ 
tion, called out something that we could not hear; he 
tapped the ball to Budd, who hurled it in a line to Hugh 
Potter waiting under the basket. Hugh flipped it 
neatly through the hoop for another precious two 
146 



THE CHAMPIONSHIP 


points, and the score was tied. Two minutes later, 
with the play waxing fast and furious, the whistle 
blew. 

The first half was ended, and Cranford still had a 
chance. 

During the intermission, we practiced shooting, 
while the followers of both teams sang their school 
songs and otherwise expressed their loyalty. We 
knew that in the locker rooms the boys were resting 
on the long wooden benches, conserving their strength, 
mustering their courage for the supreme test of the 
second half. 

‘‘I wish we could help them, ,, Barry said. 

To one side of the court, dressed in his regular 
clothes, Bill Woodruff sat hunched forward, his chin 
in his hands. If Bill had been in the game, victory 
would have been assured, but Bill had lost his chance. 
And now the championship hung in the balance. 

The second half began with the members of both 
teams grimly determined. For perhaps five minutes, 
neither side scored, and then Budd Smith eluded the 
visitors’ defense and tossed a neat goal from one 
corner of the room. That placed Cranford in the 
lead for the first time during the game, and at the 
command of the leader a thunder of cheers swept 
across the gymnasium. Our triumph, however, was 
short-lived, for thirty seconds later a visiting forward 
duplicated Budd’s feat, and the count was even again. 

Never, in all the history of the school, was there a 
147 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


contest like that. First one team and then the other 
forged into the lead, and at no time during the next 
ten minutes did more than two points separate the con¬ 
tending sides. And then, so unexpectedly that it left 
us stunned, Woodbridge began a spurt. Twice in 
rapid succession, their left forward, Glenn Charles’ 
man, tossed the ball cleanly through the iron hoop, and 
with less than five minutes to play, the score stood 
twenty-four to twenty in favor of the visitors. 

We could see that the Cranford players had about 
reached the limit of their strength. Andy Kirk, who 
had shared with Budd the burden of both attack and 
defense, leaped back into position with undaunted 
fighting spirit, but his limbs were heavy with fatigue 
and his body sagged wearily. Budd Smith, deter¬ 
mined and tireless, called out something about not being 
beaten yet; but a moment later Hugh Potter committed 
a foul, and the Woodbridge center tossed in a free 
throw, adding another point to the total of his team. 

Then it was that Andy called for time. With a 
brief motion of his hand, he gathered the team around 
him, talking to them in a low voice, so that we could 
not distinguish the words. But whatever he said, it 
seemed to revive them, to give them new life. They 
trotted back to position, their muscles taut, their eyes 
shining. Less than a minute later, Andy caged a field 
goal, cutting Woodbridge’s lead down to a bare three 
points. 

The gymnasium was in an uproar when play was 
148 



THE CHAMPIONSHIP 


resumed. Andy tapped the ball to Budd; a visiting 
player charged him, and the whistle blew. 

“Foul on Woodbridge!” the referee snapped. 

Budd Smith took his place in front of the basket, 
while the spectators watched in tense silence. A flip 
of his hand, and the ball fell cleanly through the iron 
hoop. A single field goal separated the two teams, 
but there was only a minute or so to play. 

On the toss-up, Budd received the ball again, and 
passed it halfway across the floor to Hugh Potter. 
Hugh glanced toward the basket, saw that, in some 
miraculous way, Glenn Charles was standing under 
it—unguarded. 

Dodging an opposing player, Hugh lined the ball to 
Glenn. There was a shrill cry of warning from the 
Woodbridge bench; the Cranford substitute measured 
his distance, took a single step forward—and missed 
the goal. 

A horn barked hoarsely. 

“Time!” 

For an instant, the room was so quiet that we could 
hear the clock ticking on the far wall. And then the 
visiting section of the gallery leaped to its feet, and 
boomed out the cheer of victory. 

Cranford had lost the championship. 

Listlessly, the members of the varsity team, hitherto 
undefeated, gathered around Hugh Potter and gave the 
school yell for Woodbridge. And then, while we 
watched curiously, Andy Kirk walked around the 

149 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


others and laid a kindly hand on Glenn Charles’ 
shoulder. 

“Good work, old man!” he said quietly. “You 
played a good game.” 

The other boy shook his head miserably. 

“I lost the championship for the school,” he wailed. 

But Andy’s grip tightened. 

“You’re wrong,” he announced grimly. “We lost 
it ourselves, because of our stubbornness.” 

After that, the girls couldn’t do anything but win. 
Already one of the cups had gone to our rival school, 
and it would be nothing short of tragedy to lose them 
both. Just before the whistle blew for the beginning 
of play, Barry called us together in the locker room. 

“Girls,” she said, “it’s up to us to do better than 
we know how this afternoon. The boys lost, but they 
gave everything they had, even in defeat. And now 
the school demands that we do as well as they did. 

And so we trotted out upon the floor to give every¬ 
thing that we had—for the school. Andy Kirk, al¬ 
ready dressed, met us underneath our basket, and held 
out his hand to Barry. 

“Good luck!” he said evenly. “I just wanted you to 
know that the boys are behind you. Go out and show 
us how to win a championship.” 

We played then as we never had played before. 
Within five minutes we had counted six points, and 
Woodbridge had not even scored. The Cranford 
students, recovering from the sting of one defeat, 

150 



THE CHAMPIONSHIP 


cheered harder than ever, encouraged us, pleaded with 
us, exhorted us. And although the Woodbridge girls 
played hard and fast, the system we had learned from 
Miss Embree was too much for them, and the first 
half ended with Cranford twelve points in the lead. 

During the intermission, we sat in the locker room 
and listened to Miss Embree point out our faults and 
suggest remedies. But the spirit of victory was in the 
air, and we knew that only a miracle could defeat us. 

But no miracle happened. Led by the dauntless 
Barry, we continued to speed up our play; and, al¬ 
though occasionally Woodbridge rallied, they were 
never dangerous; and with three minutes remaining, 
the score stood twenty-nine to fourteen in our favor. 

Throughout those last three minutes, the gymna¬ 
sium was in an uproar. Twice, in that brief period, 
Barry counted baskets, and then, with the stands cheer¬ 
ing happily, she made her last point for Cranford by 
a free throw from the fifteen-foot mark. A moment 
later, the whistle blew—and we had won. 

Pandemonium broke loose. Boys leaped down from 
the balcony and surrounded us, shook our hands, 
patted us on the back, told us how good we were. 
But after a time, they filed slowly out of the building, 
leaving us alone with a small group of our followers. 

We were too excited to do anything except stand 
on the gymnasium floor and just talk. Even Mil¬ 
dred Hartmore was elated, and her long face was 
wreathed in smiles. 

151 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“I guess we showed the boys a thing or two,” she 
announced. 

Barry looked up warningly, but Andy Kirk, who 
was standing near by, only grinned. 

“You showed us, Mildred,” he answered steadily, 
“that basketball games are won in the classroom as 
well as on the court.” 

Barry turned and held out her hand. 

“I want to congratulate you on your own game, 
Andy,” she said. “One of the reasons that we won 
was that you played so hard.” 

Andy smiled into her serious eyes. 

“You won,” he said, “because you worked hard, 
both in the gym .and off, from the beginning of the 
season to the end. And that’s the only way to win.” 

For a moment there was silence, then : 

“Let’s stop throwing bouquets and go on home,” 
Budd Smith suggested. But his homely face was 
beaming. “To-night,” he added, “let’s all meet in the 
school—and sing the Cranford song of victory.” 




CHAPTER XIII 


THE HONOR CLUB 

W ITH the conclusion of the basketball 
season, the school settled down to its 
usual routine. It was too early for base¬ 
ball and track; and although some of the boys engaged 
in a little preliminary running, the ensuing two or 
three weeks were nothing more than a period of gen¬ 
eral inactivity. It was then that Mr. Meyers sug¬ 
gested the formation of an Honor Club. 

The first inkling that we had of it was when he 
called four of us into the office. 

“It seems to me,” he said, “that it would be a fine 
thing for the school if we could organize some sort 
of club membership in which would be one of the 
aims of every student at Cranford.” 

“That would be great,” Andy agreed. “But how 
would you go about it, anyhow?” 

“I have already drawn up a tentative plan which I 
would like to submit to you for approval,” Mr. Meyers 
answered. 

We were interested, but a little puzzled. Mr. 
Meyers was a queer sort of chap, rather sleepy-looking, 
153 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


with rumpled yellow hair and clothes which were gen¬ 
erally too big for him. He didn’t talk much; but 
when he said a thing it was usually worth listening 
to, and he had suggested a number of things which 
had always resulted in increased benefit to the 
school. 

“What is it?” Budd asked. 

“That we organize an Honor Club,” the principal 
answered, “with a charter membership of six students. 
The requirements for admission will be based upon 
three phases of the school life, scholarship, athletics, 
and general activities. A student, to be a member, 
must have played on a varsity team, must have an 
average in lessons of eighty per cent, and must be an 
acknowledged school leader.” 

Andy’s eyes shone. 

“How are you going to select the charter members ?” 
he inquired. 

“They will be chosen,” Mr. Meyers announced, “by 
the faculty. After that, all elections will be in their 
hands.” 

We were all silent for a moment, but there was no 
doubt that the idea appealed to us. 

“Who—will the charter members be?” Andy asked 
finally. 

“You two boys,” Mr. Meyers said, meaning, of 
course, Andy and Budd, “Barry and Jane, Hugh Pot¬ 
ter and Mary Todd.” 

“What about Dot Howard and Bill Woodruff?” 

154 



THE HONOR CLUB 


“I’m sorry. But they are debarred because they 
have failed to make the grade in scholarship.” 

“But if they should bring up their average ?” Barry 
asked. 

“They will then be eligible for election. ,, The prin¬ 
cipal smiled. “What do you think of it?” 

“Great!” Andy answered. “Can we organize the 
club right now?” 

‘Til make the announcement at assembly to-morrow 
morning.” 

So it was that the Honor Club came into existence 
at the Cranford High School. It caused a lot of 
comment, of course, and there were a few of the 
students who grumbled a bit, chiefly out of jealousy. 
But the majority of the school took the new organiza¬ 
tion seriously, and Dot Howard began almost at once 
to study harder. 

“Before school is closed,” she said quietly, “I’m 
going to make the grade.” 

We held meetings every two weeks, bought pins, 
and adopted a constitution. But, although we were 
privileged to elect new members if we cared to, no 
one suggested any one until just before the opening 
of the baseball season. Then Andy proposed the name 
of Bill Sanders. 

Bill had entered Cranford at the beginning of the 
second term, having transferred from Reynolds Prep. 
He was a fine-looking fellow, with curly brown hair, 
a pleasant smile, and features as even as those of a 
155 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Greek god. He lived in a big house to the north of 
town, and drove a roadster of his own. It was re¬ 
ported that he was something of a wonder as a track! 
man, and the boys were crazy about him. He was a 
good student, too, and gave promise of developing 
into a school leader. 

“He’s just the kind of member we want for the 
Honor Club,” Andy declared. “And I move that we 
elect him.” 

The girls did not know Bill very well, but he seemed 
like a nice fellow and we could not see any reason 
for not electing him. 

“I second the motion,” Barry said. 

Andy, who was secretary of the club, got out his 
record book and called the roll. 

“Barry Browning?” 

“Yes!” 

“Hugh Potter?” 

“Yes!” 

“Budd Smith?” 

“No!” 

There was a gasp of astonishment at Budd’s an¬ 
swer, and Andy looked up from the paper on his desk 
and regarded the other boy frowningly. 

“Did you say ‘no’?” he asked unbelievingly. 

Budd nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered. “That’s what I said, Andy.” 

The frown on Andy’s face deepened, and for a mo- 

156 




THE HONOR CLUB 


ment he looked over at Budd wonderingly. Then his 
naturally quick temper asserted itself. 

“Just what's the big idea?" he demanded. “What 
have you got against Bill?" 

“Nothing much," Budd told him evenly. “But I 
was watching him play tennis with Tom Borden at 
the indoor court in the Y. M. C. A. last week, and in 
the last game, when he was ahead, he called a ball in 
that was outside of the court. And—and I’m just a 
bit doubtful whether he's just exactly what we want 
for the Honor Club." 

“But any one might make a mistake like that,” Andy 
protested. “How about it, Barry, don’t you think 
so?" 

Barry hesitated for an instant, and her face was 
troubled. 

“Well," she announced finally, “I guess he might." 

“Just the same," Budd told her stubbornly, “it gave 
Bill the game and the set." 

For a moment we were silent, and then Barry spoke. 

“In a case like that," she said quietly, “I think we 
ought to give Bill the benefit of the doubt. He’s one 
of the most popular boys in school and he’s really 
earned the right to membership." 

“That's the way I look at it," Andy said. 

But Budd Smith shook his head. 

“We’ve got plenty of time," he suggested, “and I’d 
like to wait for a couple of weeks before deciding." 

But we did not want to do that. 

157 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“It seems to me, Budd,” Mary Todd put in, “that 
you’re prejudiced against Bill.” 

But Budd refused to give ground. 

“Personally,” he said, “I like him very much. But 
this is an Honor Club, and we don’t want any one in 
our membership who doesn’t play fair—always.” 

“But even Barry thinks that Bill might have been 
mistaken,” Andy protested. 

“I’d rather wait,” Budd declared stolidly. “It 
won’t really do any harm, will it?” 

We were forced to admit that it wouldn’t; but just 
the same we were displeased, and a bit exasperated at 
Budd’s attitude. If any one but Budd had given the 
negative vote, we would have made a concerted effort 
to persuade him that he was wrong; but we had known 
Budd long enough to realize that, once he made up his 
mind, there was no moving him. And because Budd 
was a level-headed, clear-thinking chap, we could not 
help but respect his opinion in spite of our conviction 
that he was wrong. 

“And I suppose,” Andy said finally, “that there 
isn’t anything to do except to call another meeting in 
two weeks and take another vote. But you’re making 
a mistake, Budd.” 

“Probably, if Budd saw some more of Bill he’d 
change his mind,” Barry suggested. “Why not fix up 
a golf game, or something like that, with him, Budd?” 

But Andy snorted. 


158 




THE HONOR CLUB 


“It’s too early for golf,” he said. “And any¬ 
how-” 

But Barry interrupted him. 

“It isn't,” she declared. “I was driving by the 
Country Club yesterday, and the course is in pretty 
good shape. The winter greens are in use yet, but 
they’re well rolled and there were a dozen or more 
men playing.” 

Andy turned, then, to Budd. 

“Are you willing to play a round with Bill?” he 
asked. 

“I’m perfectly willing to,” Budd answered instantly. 
His homely, pleasant face bore a worried look, and 
his blue eyes were clouded. “I’m sorry that I don’t 
think as the rest of you do,” he said quietly, “but I 
just can’t help it. I’m willing, though, to do every¬ 
thing possible to give Bill a fair chance.” He cleared 
his throat huskily. “I sure do hate this business of 
voting against a fellow,” he added, “but I couldn’t 
honestly do anything else.” 

Andy’s frown disappeared at that, and the rest of 
us nodded understanding^. 

“How about arranging for a foursome match at the 
golf club to-morrow afternoon?” Andy asked. 
“Barry and you will take on Jane and Bill—and 
maybe you’ll get to know him better after that.” 

“I’d be glad to,” Budd answered. 

“How about you, Jane?” Andy asked. 

“I’m perfectly willing,” I told him. 

159 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


So, after school the next afternoon, the four of us 
drove to the Country Club in Bill Sanders’ car. 

Bill, who possibly suspected that we were “rush¬ 
ing him” for the Honor Club, was frankly pleased at 
the idea. 

“It’s mighty fine of you to ask me to play,” he said, 
“and, as you’re going to be my partner, Jane, I’ll play 
even better than I know how. We want to win if 
we can, of course.” 

Curiously, after the match started, I could not help 
noticing that the idea of winning seemed of para¬ 
mount importance to Bill. It was a four-ball, medal 
match, and the side which had the least number of 
strokes at the conclusion of the ninth hole would be 
declared the victor. Budd was slightly better than 
Bill, but Barry held about the same advantage over 
me; and the match promised to be a close one. It 
was, however, all in fun, and nobody but Bill seemed 
to take it very seriously. Nevertheless, we all played 
as best we could. 

But as the match progressed, the smile disappeared 
from Bill’s face, to be replaced by grim lines of de¬ 
termination. Budd noticed it, I think, but I could see 
by the way he steadied his own game that he was im¬ 
pressed favorably by Bill’s attitude. Budd always did 
like a person with fighting spirit. 

The match, however, continued evenly, and, at the 
fifth hole, Bill and I held but a single stroke advan¬ 
tage. Budd, his own eyes shining eagerly, drove for 
160 



THE HONOR CLUB 


a hundred and fifty yards down the fairway; and 
when I hooked my drive into a grove of trees to the 
left, Bill turned almost angrily. 

“We’ll have to do better than that,” he said, with 
an attempt at lightness. 

“Keep on fighting,” Budd told him—and grinned. 

But my hooked drive cost us three precious strokes, 
and for the next two holes, Budd and Barry enjoyed a 
slight advantage. On the short eighth, however, Bill 
made a perfect pitch to the green, and his approach putt 
rolled to within six inches of the cup. His par three, 
combined with a four from me, brought the count all 
even again, with only the ninth hole remaining to be 
played. 

Even though we realized that it was all in fun, the 
spirit of the contest had gripped all four players; and 
as we waited for Budd to drive from the final tee, 
our eyes were shining excitedly. 

“Let’s go!” Barry suggested eagerly. 

Budd, nodding, lined out a beautiful drive which 
stopped in the center of the fairway, hardly fifty yards 
from the green. Bill, who followed, took his stance 
carefully and waited for a long time before driving. 
But when finally he swung his club, he topped slightly 
and drove the ball sharply to the right. It struck hard 
ground just off the fairway, and then bounded high 
and far and was lost to sight in a patch of high grass 
on the slope of a hill. 

Just for an instant, Bill waited on the tee, his club 
161 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


upraised, and then, with an angry shake of his head, 
he walked disconsolately back to the sandbox. 

“Hard luck!” Budd told him. 

Both Barry and I made fairly good drives, and then 
the four of us walked over to the rough to hunt for 
Bill’s ball. It was a difficult job, however, and we 
tramped around for many minutes without success. 

“If we don’t find it,” I announced finally, “it will 
mean that we won’t have any total for this hole and will 
lose the match.” 

“We’ve got to find it,” Bill answered instantly. 

So we continued our search, tramping down the 
long grass and swinging our clubs aimlessly. But 
nothing happened for another three or four minutes; 
;and then, just as Budd looked up questioningly, Bill 
stooped down and gave a shrill cry of delight. 

“I have it,” he called. “And it’s in a fairly good 
lie, too.” 

We nodded relievedly, and waited for him to play 
his next shot. Selecting a mashie-niblick, he swung 
his club desperately, and the ball sailed high and far, 
straight for the green. It was a fine shot, and we 
applauded vigorously, while Bill grinned in happy re¬ 
lief and tramped after us across the fairway. 

His success in getting out of the rough evidently 
inspired him, for his approach landed eight feet from 
the cup, and he took only one putt to complete the 
hole. Barry and Budd both took fours, but my 
second shot was slightly off line, and a five was the 
162 



THE HONOR CLUB 


best that I could do. That meant, of course, that 
Bill and I had won the match by a single stroke. 

We waited on the green for a minute or so, shak¬ 
ing hands just as if the match had been a real one, 
and offering congratulations to the winners. Then 
Budd stooped down and picked up the four balls from 
the cup. 

After Andy and I selected ours, Budd turned ques- 
tioningly toward Bill. 

“You were playing a 'Silver King/ weren’t you?” 
he asked. 

The; other boy hesitated for an instant, and it 
seemed to me as if his face grew slightly pale. 

“I—I started with one,” he answered. 

“But this is a 'Holmac/ ” Budd told him. 

But Bill only smiled. 

“It must have changed around on one of the tees,” 
he said. 

Budd handed him the ball without comment; but 
throughout the ride back to town, he never said a 
word. And two weeks later, when the Honor Club 
met again, Budd told us about it. 

“My vote for Bill Sanders,” he said quietly, “is 
still in the negative.” 

“Why?” Andy wanted to know. 

“In our golf match a couple of weeks ago,” Budd 
explained, “when Bill teed up for the last hole, he 
was playing a 'Silver King.’ He sliced into the rough, 
and after a long hunt, announced that he had found 
163 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


the ball again. But when I picked it out of the cup, 
it wasn’t a ‘Silver King,” but a ‘Holmac’!” 

“Perhaps,” Barry suggested, “he found the ‘Hol¬ 
mac’ in the rough, and honestly thought that it was 
his.” 

But Budd shook his head. 

“No,” he answered, “because I called his attention 
to it, and he said that he had changed balls on one 
of the tees. And I know that he didn’t do that.” 

For a moment, no one spoke; and then Andy cleared 
his throat huskily. 

“Under the circumstances,” he announced evenly, 
“I think that a motion is in order for the meeting to 
adjourn.” 

“I make such a motion,” Budd said. “And— 
and I’m sorry,” he added. “But we can’t have any 
one in the Honor Club who doesn’t observe the rules 
of the game.” 




CHAPTER XIV 


THE SCHOOL CITY 

WEEK or so later, while we were holding 



assembly, “Doc” Oliver, the math teacher, 


advanced to the front of the platform and 


cleared his throat huskily. The hum of many voices 
in the high-school auditorium died away into silence. 

“Mr. Meyers, our principal,” the math teacher an¬ 
nounced, “is now in Cleveland attending the National 
Educational Association Convention. He will be away 
for a week, and, in the meantime, it behooves us to 
carry on the work of the school without interruption.” 

Hugh Potter, who sat in front of Barry and me, 
leaned over and gave Andy Kirk a sly dig in the ribs. 

“It behooves you,” Andy whispered audibly, “to 
keep your fists to yourself.” 

Some one snickered, and “Doc” Oliver’s face dark¬ 
ened. 

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “Mr. Kirk has something 
to say.” 

“Yes, sir,” Andy answered, and stood up. “I’d 
like to make an announcement about the baseball 
team,” he said. “This afternoon we’ll hold our first 


165 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


practice, and I want every fellow in school to come 
out.” 

Mr. Oliver nodded, ,and when some one started to 
clap, we all joined in half-heartedly. When the ap¬ 
plause had subsided and Andy had sat down again, 
Budd Smith held up his hand. 

“Could I say a word, sir?” he asked. 

“Go ahead, Budd.” 

“There will also be practice for the track candidates 
this afternoon,” Budd announced. “And I want every 
fellow who thinks he can run to come out.” 

At the wave of handclapping which greeted his 
words, Budd grew suddenly red and slumped down in 
his seat. Mr. Oliver nodded at the school orchestra, 
.and at the first strains of the “Cranford Marching 
Song,” we rose to our feet and filed out of the room 
to classes. It didn’t matter much to us whether Mr. 
Meyers was absent or not, and neither of the an¬ 
nouncements which Andy and Budd had made held 
any special significance for the girls of the school. 
We liked baseball and track, of course; but, after all, 
they weren’t any concern of ours and we didn’t see 
any particular reason for getting excited about them. 

Barry, joining a group of us on the way home at 
noon, frowned almost unhappily and regarded us with 
thoughtful eyes. 

“I wish,” she said, “that there was something we 
girls could do.” 

No one answered for a moment. Some of the rest 
166 



THE SCHOOL CITY 


of us felt just about the same way, but we hadn’t any 
suggestions to offer. 

“Boys have all the fun,” Mary Todd declared 
finally. “In the fall they can play football, in the 
winter basketball, and then, when spring comes, they 
have baseball and track. And all that’s left for us to 
do is to attend the games and help as much as we can 
by cheering for them to win.” 

“Well, that’s something,” Mildred Hartmore put in. 

“Not enough,” Barry said. “I’m tired of being an 
onlooker.” 

“We didn’t look on so very much during basketball 
season,” Mary reminded her. 

“You bet we didn’t,” Barry was silent for a mo¬ 
ment. “We might get up a tennis tournament,” she 
suggested finally, “and put up a cup, or a medal, or 
something like that.” 

“You’ll win it,” Mildred announced bluntly. 
“You’re always winning things, Barry.” 

“We’ll make it a handicap affair.” 

“Maybe some one else will have a chance then,” 
Mildred conceded. “How about having a meeting this 
afternoon?” 

“At the athletic field at four o’clock,” Barry decided. 
“And we’ll spread the word among the girls after 
lunch.” 

No one objected; and, at four o’clock, about fifteen 
of us gathered on the stands of the athletic field and 
made arrangements for our tennis tournament. 

167 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“We can play on the courts of the Country Club,” 
Barry said, “and to-morrow we’ll make the draw 
and fix the handicaps. It ought to be a lot of 
fun.” 

“The only thing wrong with it,” Mary put in, “is 
that we’ll be playing for ourselves and not for the 
school.” 

Nevertheless, we looked forward eagerly to the 
tournament; at least, it gave us something to do, and, 
with Barry playing scratch, we .all had an equal chance. 
So we decided to chip in a dollar apiece as an entrance 
fee and buy a silver cup for the winner. After that, 
we walked down to the field and watched the boys 
practice baseball and track. 

But things did not seem to be going very well. 
There were really not enough boys in school to have 
two teams, and, naturally, there was some overlapping. 
Budd Smith, for instance, although he was captain of 
track, was catcher on the baseball team; and Andy 
Kirk, the leader of the nine, was the best runner in 
school. 

“What we ought to do,” Andy said, after Budd had 
laid aside his big catcher’s mitt and announced that he 
was going to do some running, “is to cut out track 
entirely and give all our attention to baseball.” 

“Why?” Budd asked him bluntly. 

“Nobody cares much for track,” Andy answered, 
“and it isn’t much fun, anyhow.” 

But Budd shook his head stubbornly. 

168 



THE SCHOOL CITY 


“It’s lots of fun for some of us,” he said. “And 
we’re going to keep on until the last whistle blows.” 

“Bosh!” Andy snorted, and turned away angrily. 
But he knew better than to argue with Budd. 

“It’s too bad that things have worked out that way,” 
Barry whispered to us after the boys had resumed 
practice. “If they don’t look out, there’ll be hard 
feelings somewhere.” 

“Not unless Andy starts it,” Mildred Hartmore de¬ 
clared. “But there’s no telling what he’s likely to do.” 

“Andy’s all right,” Barry contended. 

“If” Mildred retorted, “you let him have his own 
way.” 

But, apparently, the baseball and track teams agreed 
upon some arrangement of their own, for the days 
went by without any open rupture, and the girls of the 
school gave their attention to the tennis tournament. 
And then, just when everything was going along 
smoothly and we looked forward to the completion of 
the year without incident, Mr. Meyers returned from 
Cleveland with a new and startling idea which 
threatened to revolutionize the life of the school. 

On Monday afternoon, he called together the mem¬ 
bers of the Honor Club for conference in his office. 

“At the educational conference last week,” he an¬ 
nounced, when we were seated in a semicircle before 
his desk, “a principal of one of the western high 
schools told me of a novel idea he had introduced 
among his students. And it seems to me so valuable, 
169 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


so fraught with possibilities, that I am thinking of 
changing the entire organization here at Cranford.” 

We regarded him wonderingly; and Budd, always 
anxious to get at the root of things, cleared his throat. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“The organization of a School City,” the principal 
explained, “with a mayor, and a Common Council, and 
all minor officials.” 

But that didn’t mean anything to us, and we were 
more puzzled than ever. 

“We don’t quite understand,” Barry said. 

“What I want to do,” Mr. Meyers continued pa¬ 
tiently, “is to impress upon all of you the qualities of 
good citizenship, to make you comprehend the essen¬ 
tials of municipal government, and to give you an op¬ 
portunity of assuming some real responsibility in the 
governing of your school. In other words, I want to 
establish self-government at Cranford.” 

For a moment no one spoke. Barry looked over at 
me with twinkling eyes; she was amused, I knew, at 
the long words Mr. Meyers had used, and she was a 
bit inclined to take the whole matter as a joke. But 
Budd’s eyes were serious. 

“That’s a good idea,” he said. 

Andy Kirk frowned. 

“I don’t get it yet.” 

“It’s simply this,” the older man told him. “We 
are going to organize the student body into a School 
City; there will be a mayor elected by popular vote, a 
170 



THE SCHOOL CITY 


councilman-at-large, two councilmen from the senior 
class, two from the junior class, and one from each of 
the lower classes. These students will be the gov¬ 
erning body of the school. They will have charge of 
discipline, the direction of athletics, and everything 
else except matters of purely faculty concern. I want 
to try it for the remainder of the year as an ex¬ 
periment, and I want the Honor Club to support 
me. 

We began to understand then, to realize the signif¬ 
icance of the proposal. Budd’s eyes lighted. 

“That sure will be fine,” he said eagerly. “It—it 
will help make real citizens of us.” 

Andy looked up thoughtfully. 

“How will the nominations be made?” he asked. 

“The seniors will name two candidates for mayor, 
councilman-at-large, and their own representative,” 
Mr. Meyers answered, “and the other classes will also 
name their candidates.” 

“And the voting?” 

“The entire school will vote for the first two officers; 
the others will be chosen by classes.” 

“I’m for it,” Andy announced suddenly. 

“How about the rest of you?” 

We all nodded. 

“You can count on us.” 

“It sure will be fine,” Andy said. “And the fellows 
will be mighty glad to back up the idea, I know.” 

“So will the girls,” Barry added. 

171 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Andy glanced up quickly, met Barry’s steady eyes 
upon him, and frowned. 

“It’s your intention, isn’t it,” he asked Mr. Meyers, 
“to have the boys run this School City?” 

The older man smiled into his glowing eyes. 

“How about a real city, Andy?” he asked quietly. 
“Who is it generally runs things?” 

“The men, of course.” 

“How about the vote?” 

Andy grinned weakly. 

“I suppose,” he admitted, “that the ladies vote too, 
at least some of them do.” 

“That answers your own question, doesn’t it?” 

“Not exactly,” Andy contended. “I’m perfectly 
willing to have the girls of the school cast their ballots; 
but what I’m getting at is that it will be the boys who 
will hold office and things like that.” 

“Why?” Barry asked him. 

“Because that’s the way things go,” Andy told her 
almost irritably. “Who would want to have a girl 
mayor, for instance?” 

“Maybe Cranford High School might,” Barry 
answered. “You can’t always tell, you know.” 

Andy’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment he did 
not answer. Mr. Meyers, sensing a possible break in 
the ranks of the school, hastened to pour oil upon 
troubled waters. 

“Any member of the student body will, of course, be 
172 



THE SCHOOL CITY 


eligible for office,” he said. “You understand that, 
Andy?” 

“Yes, sir, I suppose so.” But Andy's eyes glowed 
resentfully and his tone was sullen. 

“When are we going to put the proposition up to 
the school?” Mary Todd asked. 

“To-morrow morning. We’ll nominate our candi¬ 
dates on Friday afternoon and hold the election ten 
days later.” 

“Can we run a campaign, just as they do in real city 
politics?” Andy inquired. 

“Yes,” Mr. Meyers told him. “And we’ll set aside 
two or three morning assemblies next week to hear the 
candidates speak.” 

It was an exciting prospect, and we all nodded 
eagerly. 

“A full lunch box for every student,” Budd Smith 
declared whimsically, “and a square deal for the labor¬ 
ing man.” 

Barry grinned into his twinkling eyes. 

“Our party slogan will be something like this,” she 
said: “Honor for old Cranford High, and—and the 
school comes first!” 

Andy looked up suspiciously. 

“What do you mean by our party?” he asked. 

For a long moment, Barry did not reply, then: 

“The party that represents us, I suppose,” she 
evaded. 

“Humph!” Andy said. 

173 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Budd stood up. 

“You can count on us to stand behind you, Mr. 
Meyers/’ he said. “It’s going to be a fine thing for 
the school.” 

“But the mayor, of course,” Andy added, “will have 
to be one of the fellows.” 

He looked over at Barry, challengingly, defiantly. 
But Barry, meeting his glowering eyes, said never a 
word. 




CHAPTER XV 


THE CAMPAIGN 

A T first the school was only lukewarm to the 
idea of self-government. A good many of 
the boys seemed to take it as something of a 
joke, and the girls, apparently, did not care much about 
it one way or the other. But as the week wore on and 
the time approached for the nomination of officers— 
the primary election, Mr. Meyers called it—the in¬ 
terest became more pronounced; groups of boys and 
girls gathered in the corridors and discussed possible 
candidates for mayor; the Civics class began an in¬ 
tensive study of municipal government; and on 
Wednesday evening more than a dozen high school 
students went down to the city hall and attended the 
weekly meeting of the Cranford Common Council. 

By the time Friday rolled around, we were all pretty 
much excited, but no attempt had been made to or¬ 
ganize into parties of any kind or to suggest any 
special candidates for office. But after Mr. Meyers 
had explained the whole system of election and had 
handed out long ballots for us to write our selections 
175 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


upon, the thoughts of most of us turned instinctively 
toward Barry Browning and Andy Kirk. One or 
the other, we felt certain, would be Mayor of the 
Cranford School City. For the only other student 
who could approach them in general popularity was 
Budd Smith—and Budd was a member of the junior 
class. 

It took us a long time to go through the process of 
voting. Members of all classes were required to 
nominate two candidates for mayor and councilman-at- 
large, after which each class voted for its own special 
representatives on the Council. But Mr. Meyers in¬ 
sisted that there be no communication of any kind, 
and for ten minutes or more the silence of the room 
was broken only by the rustle of paper and the shift¬ 
ing of restless bodies. But finally, after the last stu¬ 
dent had completed his ballot, Mr. Meyers appointed 
five tellers, who collected the slips and began the 
count. 

The majority of the boys did not wait to hear the 
results but hurried off to baseball and track practice. 
Some of the girls who were scheduled to play matches 
in our tennis tournament also left the building, but a 
small group of us remained in the auditorium and 
listened curiously as “Doc” Oliver read the nomina¬ 
tions aloud and Mr. Meyers wrote the names on a 
large blackboard near the platform. It took an hour 
or more for them to finish, but, finally, the school 
principal checked up the results as follows: 

176 



THE CAMPAIGN 


For Mayor 

Barry Browning 
Andy Kirk 


For Councilman-at-large 

Jane Barr 
Hugh Potter 

For Senior Councilmen (2) 
Mildred Hartmore 
Tom Borden 
Dot Howard 
Ted Barkley 


For Junior Councilmen ( 2 ) 
Bill Woodruff 
Budd Smith 
Mary Todd 
Bill Sanders 

For Sophomore Council¬ 
man 

Bob Dixon 
Jim Ackley 

For Freshman Councilman 
Hal Havens 
Freda Rogers 


After the teachers had gone back to the office, leav¬ 
ing us alone, Mildred Hartmore was the first to speak. 

“There are six girls nominated against nine boys,” 
she said. “That means, of course, that we will have 
to do a lot of work between now and election.” 

“Why?” Barry asked. 

“Because we’ve got to show the boys that the time 
is past when they can run the school as they see fit,” 
Mildred told her. “And the best way to do it is to 
elect you mayor and Jane councilman-at-large.” 

For a moment, Barry did not answer. In spite of 
the brief clash which she had had with Andy in Mr. 

1 77 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Meyer’s office, I do not think that she cherished any 
deep desire to be head of our new School City. 

“I don’t know, Mildred,” she announced finally, 
“whether we ought to make an issue of this or not. 
We fought it all out during basketball season when 
we won the County Championship and the boys didn’t. 
And they were so mighty decent about it that it seems 
wrong, somehow, to cross them again.” 

But Mildred’s pale blue eyes, half hidden beneath 
thick glasses, flashed angrily. Mildred was never so 
happy as in the midst of controversy; she was by na¬ 
ture, I believe, a crusader. 

“This,” she declared eloquently, “is an era of equal 
rights. If we get the votes, we’re entitled to hold 
office if we want to and I’m going to get the votes.” 

“How?” Barry asked her. 

“By organizing a women’s party. And I’ll be the 
campaign manager.” 

Barry regarded her with twinkling eyes. 

“Some time, Mildred,” she said whimsically, “maybe 
you’ll be president of the United States.” 

“Maybe I will,” Mildred answered grimly, “and 
I’d like very much to run for it against some one like 
Andy Kirk.” 

“Oh, let Andy alone,” Mary Todd put in wearily. 

The rest of us nodded. Andy, we knew, was a 
good fellow at heart and we could not quite under¬ 
stand Mildred’s antagonism. But, then, Mildred was 
not popular with any of the boys, and even Budd 
178 




THE CAMPAIGN 


Smith found it hard sometimes to be polite to her. 

“The thing to do,” Barry suggested, “is to go about 
our own business and let the election take care of 
itself.” 

“We’ll see,” Mildred said. 

But although there was an ominous tone to her 
words, we did not take her very seriously. On the 
way up to the Country Club a few minutes later, how¬ 
ever, Mildred halted at the athletic field and, before we 
could stop her, addressed Andy directly. 

“We’ve just come from school,” she announced 
rather sharply, “and you and Barry have been nom¬ 
inated for mayor.” 

Andy frowned. Things, I imagine, hadn’t gone 
very well on the baseball field and the team captain 
wasn’t feeling especially pleased with the world. He 
looked over at Mildred resentfully. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Mildred told him. “But I just wanted 
you to know that the girls are going to organize a 
party and win the election.” 

Andy’s frown deepened. 

“Glad to know it,” he said grimly. “That will give 
us a chance to organize a crowd of our own.” 

“I’m the campaign manager,” Mildred announced 
importantly, “and we’re going to—to win, of course.” 

“Of course you are,” Andy told her evenly. “With 
you running the thing. . . 

But Barry interrupted him. 

179 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“We haven't decided anything at all, Andy," she 
explained quietly. “What Mildred’s telling you about 
is only her own idea." 

But Andy’s fighting instinct had been aroused. 

“Mildred’s asked for a battle,’’ he said grimly, “and 
she’s going to get it." He turned then to a group of 
baseball players, who had been listening curiously. 
“Men," he added significantly, “the fight is on. Let’s 
get back to practice." 

After the boys had resumed their playing, Barry 
glanced over at Mildred and shook her head hopelessly. 

“You surely have spilled the beans,’’ she said. 

We knew that the harm had been done; that Andy 
Kirk, with his spirit of aggressive leadership, would 
organize his followers into a compact political party 
and seek to control the election. 

“It’s too bad that we’ve got to fight Andy again," 
I said to Barry when, later, we sat on the porch of the 
Country Club. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that 
the school should always be divided." 

But Barry refused to be pessimistic. 

“We’ll only be divided on the surface, Jane," she 
answered. “Underneath it all, every one of us has the 
good of Cranford at heart.’’ She paused, then, and 
her lips parted in a whimsical smile. “That will be 
our campaign slogan," she added thoughtfully: “The 
honor of Cranford High—and the school comes first." 

“You’re going to go into the campaign then?" I 
asked curiously. 

180 




THE CAMPAIGN 


“Yes,” Barry answered. She turned serious eyes to 
mine. “After all,” she declared soberly, “it might be 
a good thing. In real elections, you know, they have 
political parties, and campaigns, and things like that. 
And this training might some time be of value to us.” 

“How about Mr. Meyers?” 

“I think he’ll agree with me. He wants us to learn to 
be good citizens—and this is one of the ways, maybe.” 

I could see Barry’s point of view easily; but to be 
perfectly honest, I was a bit tired of controversy and I 
wanted to finish the school year without bitterness. 

“I hope,” I said, “that Andy doesn’t make too big 
an issue out of this.” 

“He won’t,” Barry answered confidently. “Andy’s 
a fair fighter, you know, and this is going to be an open 
contest, without bitterness on either side.” 

If Mildred Hartmore had kept still, I think that 
everything would have gone along without friction. 
But on Monday morning, without consulting any one 
about it, Mildred posted a notice on the bulletin board: 

TO THE GIRLS OF THE SCHOOL 

A meeting of all girls of Cranford 
High will be held in the auditorium at 
three o’clock this afternoon, in order to 
organize a women’s party for the com¬ 
ing election. Everybody out! We 
must beat the boys. 

181 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


It was not until after the second hour that Barry 
discovered it. She found Andy and Budd standing 
before the board, and Andy’s eyes, as he turned to 
her, gleamed resentfully. 

“I know now what you meant by our party when 
we were talking to Mr. Meyers,” he said. “But I 
thought that kind of thing was ended.” 

“Mildred put that notice up without any of us know¬ 
ing it,” Barry answered quietly. 

“Oh! It was Mildred then?” 

“Yes.” Barry hesitated for an instant, and then 
looked over at Andy appealingly. “Andy,” she said, 
“I’m sorry this has happened, but it’s been started and 
the only thing for us to do is to go through with it. 
But it doesn’t need to make any difference between us, 
does it?” 

At the direct question, the angry light faded from 
Andy’s eyes. 

“Of course it doesn’t,” he answered. “I haven’t 
anything against you, Barry, but I sure would like to 
show Miss Mildred Hartmore a thing or two.” 

“How about shaking on it?” Barry asked. 

Their hands clasped in a grip of renewed friendship. 

“I’ve got to get back to class,” Andy announced 
awkwardly. “Good luck, Barry!” 

“Thanks!” 

When he had gone, Barry turned to me and smiled 
happily. 


182 



THE CAMPAIGN 


“If a thing like that isn't good for the school," she 
said, “I'd like to know what is." 

“It will be all right," I told her, “if Andy doesn't 
lose his temper, and forget." 

“He won’t," Barry answered confidently. “Andy’s 
all right, Jane." 

It seemed, as the days wore on, as if Barry was 
right. On Tuesday afternoon, the boys held a meet¬ 
ing in the auditorium, and on Wednesday morning, 
the trees and telegraph posts in the vicinity of the 
school were covered with flaming posters: 


A GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE 
BY THE PEOPLE, AND 
FOR THE PEOPLE 

Our candidate for Mayor — Andy Kirk 
For Councilman-at-large — Hugh Potter 

Stand by those who have always stood 
by the school, who have upheld the name 
of Cranford on football field and track 

REAL MEN FOR REAL LEADERS 
AND A SQUARE DEAL FOR ALL 

Barry, reading the announcement from beginning 
to end, nodded gravely. 

183 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“It’s clever,” she said evenly. “There isn’t any ap¬ 
peal to the boys alone, you see, just to the school as a 
whole.” 

But Mildred Hartmore’s eyes flashed angrily. 

“My father owns a printing plant,” she announced 
grimly, “and to-night I’ll get up a poster that—that 
will make that one look sick.” 

“Jane and I will be glad to help you,” Barry 
suggested. 

Mildred did not take at all kindly to the idea, but 
there was nothing she could do but accept. And after 
•school that day, the three of us went over to Mildred’s 
house and prepared our first political notice: 

THE HONOR OF CRANFORD HIGH 
AND THE SCHOOL COMES FIRST 

The girls of the school won the bas¬ 
ketball championship for Cranford. 

Why not express your appreciation by 
electing a girl for Mayor? 

Our Candidates 
Mayor —Barry Browning 
Councilman-at-large —Jane Barr 

Mildred wanted to add a lot more, but we overruled 
her; and when the next day we distributed our own 
posters beside those of the boys there was no doubt 
184 




THE CAMPAIGN 


of their effectiveness. For they served to bring the 
girls of the school together—and there were more 
girls in Cranford than boys. 

Mildred Hartmore, meeting Andy in the corridor, 
grinned triumphantly. 

“How does it feel, ,, she asked arrogantly, “to be 
on a losing side?” 

Andy’s eyes flashed, but he answered quietly enough. 

“A good fighter,” he said, “never admits defeat until 
the last gun is fired.” 

“Humph!” Mildred answered. But she did not 
look particularly happy during the remainder of the 
day. 

On Thursday afternoon, however, she perked up a 
bit when Mr. Meyers called a mass meeting in the 
auditorium to hear speeches by the two candidates for 
mayor. Barry, the first to speak, did not say very 
much; but she did emphasize the fact that majority 
rule was the basis of democratic government and that, 
whatever the outcome, she would be glad to stand be¬ 
hind the decision of her fellow students. 

Andy, following her, generously admitted the truth 
of his opponent’s words. 

“But, from the beginning of all government,” he 
continued eloquently, “the destinies of nations have 
rested in the hands of men. They are the natural 
rulers, the instinctive leaders, and I honestly believe 
that by experience and—and ability, they should be 
chosen to direct the fortunes of our new School City.” 
185 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


It was a straightforward speech, honest, and sin¬ 
cere, and I could see that many of the girls were deeply 
impressed. But I did not think that it would have 
any direct influence on their votes; and, although I 
could not help admiring Andy for the fine things he 
had said, it looked very much as if Barry Browning 
was going to be the first Mayor of the school. 

For there were seventy-three girls in Cranford, and 
only seventy boys. 

“You’ll get it, Barry,” I said, after the meeting was 
ended. “It’s all over now but the shouting.” 

But Barry shook her head doubtfully. 

“No election is over,” she answered, “until the last 
returns are in.” 

But it didn’t seem to me as if she could be defeated. 



CHAPTER XVI 


THE BEST PUTT 

O UR tennis tournament was more or less rele¬ 
gated to the background in view of the com¬ 
ing election, but afternoons, when the boys 
were on the athletic field, we drove up to the Country 
Club and held the scheduled matches. Barry, playing 
from scratch, managed to complete the first two rounds 
without defeat; but, on Friday, she barely won from 
Mildred Hartmore, who enjoyed a handicap of plus 
thirty. That left only Barry, Dot Howard, Mary 
Todd and myself in the tournament; and we decided 
to play the semi-finals on Friday, and postpone the 
final round until the following Tuesday. 

Barry won from Dot in three close sets; and because 
Mary was slightly off her game, she lost to me by 
scores of six to four and seven to five. That left 
Barry and myself to fight it out for the championship, 
but there was little doubt in our minds that Barry 
would win. She always did. 

Thinking it over later in the day, it occurred to me 
that winning had become such a habit with Barry that 
she had learned to expect it and to accept it as inevita- 
187 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


ble. And, in spite of my loyalty to her, in spite of our 
friendship, I could not help wondering what she would 
do if defeat suddenly loomed before her. But I de¬ 
cided almost instantly that, if Barry should be beaten, 
either in tennis or something else, she would take de¬ 
feat without whining, like the good sport that she was. 
But I did not want Barry to be beaten—in any¬ 
thing. 

By the time Saturday rolled around, we were so 
excited about the election that we could think of noth¬ 
ing else. Barry, feeling the need for diversion of 
some kind, suggested that we play a round or two of 
golf; and we were just about to go back to the garage 
to get the car when Budd and Andy dropped in. The 
ground was too soggy for baseball, and Andy was ap¬ 
parently in bad humor. 

“We had counted on to-day for some good prac¬ 
tice, M he announced almost angrily. “And now, just 
when we have a lot of time on our hands, it has to rain 
and spoil things.” 

“It’s hard luck,” Barry told him sympathetically. 
“But it doesn’t do any good, Andy, to growl about it.” 

“Crabbing never does any good,” Budd put in, with 
his characteristic bluntness. “But people keep on do¬ 
ing it, just the same.” 

Barry smiled. 

“Jane and I,” she announced, “are going to play a 
couple of rounds of golf at the Country Club. Why 
not come along and make it a foursome?” 

188 



THE BEST PUTT 


“The course will be pretty wet, won’t it?” Andy 
asked. 

“Not very. The links are on high ground, you 
know, and they opened the summer greens last week.” 

Andy’s face brightened. 

“How about it, Budd?” he demanded. “Shall we 
take them on?” 

“Sure!” 

For a moment Barry was silent, but I could see by 
the expression on her face that a new plan had occurred 
to her. Barry was always devising new plans. 

“If you care to,” she suggested finally, “we might 
make a regular match of it; the boys of the high 
school against the girls. That would give you a 
chance, you know, to make up for the way we beat you 
in the skating races last winter.” 

Andy accepted the challenge instantly. 

“The other fellows of the school who are members 
of the club are Bill Woodruff and Tom Borden,” he 
said. “But we can get them easily enough.” 

“And we'll get Mary Todd and Dot Howard,” 
Barry agreed. “How about it? Is it a go?” 

Andy’s lips shut grimly. 

“It sure is.” 

“Will there be any prize?” Budd asked curiously. 

Barry shook her head. 

“No,” she answered. “We’ll play the match to-day 
just for the glory of winning.” 

“And the satisfaction of it,” Andy added. 

189 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


We drove up to the club in Barry's roadster, the 
four boys standing on the running boards and the 
girls crowded inside. Because it was early in the 
season and an off day, the links were practically 
deserted and we had them almost entirely to our¬ 
selves. 

“Before playing,” Budd Smith suggested generously, 
“let’s have some lemonade. It’s on me.” 

We placed two of the small tables together and sat 
on the broad stone porch, while the steward went in¬ 
side to fill the order. It was a perfect day; the sky 
was clear and the sun beat down upon the course from 
“a canopy of unshaded blue,” as the English teacher 
would have told us. The past winter had been a mild 
one and there had been little frost in the ground, so 
that the links were fairly hard, and the greens had 
already begun to take on a suggestion of velvet. 

“Probably none of us will be able to break the 
record to-day,” Dot Howard announced lightly. 
“We’re all more or less out of practice.” 

“I’ve only played a couple of games this year,” 
Budd declared, “and my game’s all off.” 

“No use of trying to make an alibi, Budd,” Barry 
told him chidingly. “None of us are world beaters.” 

Budd grinned pleasantly. 

“How are we going to match up?” he asked. 

There was a long discussion after that. The boys, 
of course, were much better than the girls, and it had 
been understood from the first that the match would 
190 



THE BEST BUTT 


be a handicap affair. But it took us a long time to 
decide just what the handicaps would be. 

“Budd,” Barry argued, “is at least nine strokes 
better than I am, and Andy’s just about that much 
under Jane. How about giving us a stroke a hole.” 

“That’s fair enough,” Andy answered. “What 
about the other two matches ?” 

We decided, finally, that Tom Borden was to give 
Mary Todd eleven strokes, two on the long sixth and 
seventh holes, and one on the others; and that Bill 
Woodruff would give Dot an additional stroke on the 
station hole, which was well bunkered and cleverly 
trapped. In the meantime, we had finished our 
lemonades and concluded the preliminaries, and there 
was nothing to do but start. 

Tom and Mary were the first couple to tee off, and 
when Tom’s drive landed fairly in a high bunker a 
hundred yards from the clubhouse, Andy Kirk shook 
his head doubtfully. 

“We’ll have to do better than that, men,” he de¬ 
clared grimly. 

“The game’s young yet,” Tom told him. 

Mary’s drive rolled along the ground but did not 
quite reach the bunker, and her second shot took her 
safely over. Tom wasted three strokes in the sand, 
and we knew then that we had won the first hole. 

Dot Howard, preparing to drive, turned smilingly 
to the stolid-faced Budd. 

“Ready to give up yet?” she asked lightly. 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


But Budd Smith wasn’t the kind to give up until 
the last gun was fired, and he only shook his head 
smilingly. 

“He who laughs last laughs best,” he quoted. “Go 
ahead! Let’s see you knock the cover off the 
ball.” 

That, apparently, was what Dot tried to do; for she 
overswung, and her brand new “Silver King” trickled 
only a few feet from the tee. 

Andy Kirk grinned. 

“Some drive!” he remarked. 

But Dot, using a brassie, carried the bunker with 
her second shot, and the girls still held the advantage. 
Then Andy and I prepared to tee up for our own par¬ 
ticular match. 

In spite of the fact that it was all in fun, both sides 
wanted to win. None of us were very good. Budd, 
when his game was going well, occasionally hit under 
fifty for nine holes, but Andy’s average was about 
fifty-five, and that of the other two boys between that 
mark and sixty. Barry had once made a fifty-two, 
and I was four or five strokes over Barry. As for 
Mary and Dot, they were likely to make anything from 
sixty to eighty-five. 

Frankly, we did not cherish any particularly strong 
hope of winning the match; but it was good fun, and 
we were willing to chance defeat. But, nevertheless, 
we were determined to win if we could. 

My own drive, more by accident than design, 
192 



THE BEST BUTT 


skimmed over the bunker and rolled to within fifty- 
yards of the green. 

“Good work!” Budd declared. “That was a 
whopper.” 

“You couldn’t do it again in a thousand years,” 
Andy grumbled. 

I was sorry, in a way, that I had made such a good 
drive, for it had served to put Andy in a bad humor, 
and I knew that the round would not be particularly 
pleasant, for he was a temperamental chap, and he 
surely did hate to be beaten. 

“Come on!” Budd told him. “And don’t try to 
kill the ball.” 

But Andy’s drive sliced far off the course and rolled 
out of bounds, and he was forced to tee up again. 
Barry’s next remark did not serve to improve his tem¬ 
per any. 

“The general idea, Andy,” she explained mildly, “is 
to knock the ball straight ahead.” 

Andy grunted savagely and hooked his next shot 
into the rough. He tried to dig out with his mashie 
but missed entirely, and by the time we had reached 
the green, he had taken seven strokes, and the hole was 
mine without the help of the handicap. 

“Good work!” Andy said grudgingly. “But just 
wait.” 

The second hole was four hundred yards long, and 
directly in front of the green was a deep ditch, with a 
shallow stream of water running through it. Andy’s 
193 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


drive came to a stop fifty yards from the ditch, but 
his second shot, which should have landed him safely 
on the green, rolled into the hazard. When he came 
to look for it, we found it in an impossible lie between 
two rocks. 

Andy really lost his temper then. 

“Darn it!” he said, and regarded his caddie 
resentfully. 

“I didn’t do nothinV , the boy protested. 

“Keep your mouth shut!” Andy snapped. 

And then, to make matters worse, he topped the 
following shot and rolled the ball to the ditch again. 
When finally he completed the hole, he had taken ten 
strokes, and I was two up, with seven to play. 

Andy tramped silently to the third tee and did not 
even smile when I hooked my drive into a clump of 
weeds to the left of the fairway. He took his stance 
grimly, swung viciously and sent his ball sailing straight 
for the pin. But it must have struck a rock or some 
other hard substance, for it bounded suddenly to the 
right and landed squarely in the middle of a muddy 
pond thirty yards from the green. 

For perhaps five seconds he stood motionless upon 
the tee, his hands on his hips, his eyes flashing angrily. 

“Was it a floater?” I asked him. 

“A man can’t play against luck like that,” he an¬ 
nounced huskily, ignoring the question. And then, 
without another word, he almost ran toward the pond. 

His actions, really, were inexcusable; and if it had 
194 



THE BEST PUTT 


been any one but Andy, I would never have forgiven 
him. But I knew that he was naturally quick-tempered 
and did not realize how discourteous he had been. 
Moreover, the angrier he became, the better would 
be my chances of winning. So I let him go ahead, and 
followed the caddy to where my own ball lay. 

There doesn’t seem to be any need of continuing the 
description of the match between Andy and me. Not 
because I was good but because Andy was bad, I won 
the third hole, and the fourth. On the fifth tee, Andy 
tried desperately to pull himself together, and if he had 
not missed a three-foot putt, he would have won the 
hole. But he did miss it by a clean six inches, and 
that meant, of course, that I was five holes in the 
lead; and as there were only four more to play, the 
match was already won. 

Andy, when the realization of his defeat came to 
him, stood for a moment on the sloping green, his 
hands deep in the pockets of his knickers, his dark eyes 
sullen. And then, suddenly, he walked over to where 
I was standing. 

“Good work, Jane!” he said quietly. “And con¬ 
gratulations !” 

“I didn’t win the match, Andy,” I told him. “It was 
you who lost it.” 

He nodded, and for the first time since we had 
started out from the clubhouse, smiled. But it was 
rather a twisted smile. 

“I—I acted like a cad,” he announced unexpectedly. 
195 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“And I apologize, Jane. I’m very much ashamed of 
myself.” 

•Knowing Andy, I realized how hard it had been for 
him to admit his wrong. 

“Let’s forget it,” I answered quickly, “and play out 
the match.” 

After that there was a different story to tell. Andy, 
again in control of his temper, won four holes in a 
row: but the damage had already been done. When 
we reached the club, Dot and Mary rushed up eagerly. 

“How did you make out?” Dot demanded. 

“Jane won,” Andy announced without hesitation. 
“Five up and four to go.” 

“But the both of us lost,” Mary put in. “That 
makes the score two to one in favor of the boys.” 

“And Barry and Budd are still to come in ?” 

We could see them just driving from the ninth tee, 
and because we could not bear the suspense, we walked 
out to meet them. 

“How goes it?” Dot asked. 

“Barry is one up,” Budd answered quietly. 

“Hurray!” 

That meant that if Barry could hold Budd even in 
the final hole, she would win the match and the score 
would be two points for either side. The ninth hole 
was an easy one, too, and Barry’s drive had been both 
straight and far. 

“Go to it, Budd!” Tom Borden urged. “We’ve 
got them so far, two to one.” 

196 




THE BEST BUTT 


Budd Smith, always reliable in a crisis, swung care¬ 
fully on his next shot, and when the ball stopped roll¬ 
ing, it lay a bare four feet from the hole. Andy Kirk, 
forgetful of his own defeat, pounded Budd happily 
upon the back. 

“That’s the boy!” he declared joyously. “It’s all 
over now but the shouting.” 

Barry, undisturbed, played her next shot to the edge 
of the green. There was still a chance for us, for 
Barry had a one-stroke handicap, and if she could 
score a four, the hole would be halved and she would 
win the match, one up. 

She took a long time before her approach putt, but 
finally she tapped the ball to within four feet of the 
pin. She was a particularly good putter and, barring 
accidents, we knew that her next shot would probably 
be the last. 

“Take your time,” Dot Howard urged. “Put it 
in, Barry!” 

Barry measured the distance carefully, walked up to 
the cup and then started to back away. But somehow, 
she overestimated the distance, for, unexpectedly, her 
heel struck against her ball and moved it a scant two 
inches to the right. For a moment, she looked down 
wonderingly, and then, very quietly, she turned to 
Budd. 

“I’ve just moved the ball,” she announced evenly, 
“and that means a stroke.” 

197 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


For a moment no one answered; and then Budd 
Smith shook his head almost angrily. 

“We’re not going to count it,” he announced stolidly. 
“It was an accident.” 

But Barry insisted. 

“We’re playing in a match,” she maintained. “And 
the rules go, Budd.” 

“We’re perfectly willing not to count it,” Tom Bor¬ 
den told her. 

“It goes,” Barry said. 

Budd Smith knew her well enough not to argue, 
but his eyes were troubled. 

“It’s your putt, Barry,” Andy suggested. 

But we realized that the match was as good as lost. 
Barry had already taken three strokes, and the acci¬ 
dent had cost her another. Budd Smith lay four feet 
from the pin on his second shot. All that he had to 
do was to make his putt good, and the hole would be 
his. And then the final score would be two points for 
the boys, one for the girls, and one tie. 

Barry, apparently undismayed, measured the dis¬ 
tance again and tapped the ball firmly. It rolled 
straight for the hole and dropped in with a little click. 
But she had taken five strokes, and even counting the 
handicap, Budd would undoubtedly make it in four. 

He took his stance stolidly, his pleasant, homely 
face impassive. We waited breathlessly, although we 
knew that the putt was as good as made, for Budd 
had always been deadly on the green. 

198 



THE BEST PUTT 


But this time, Budd missed. His ball traveled on 
a straight line, and stopped two inches from the cup. 
For a moment we waited in amazed unbelief, and then 
Budd glanced over to where Barry was standing. And 
I could swear that in his eyes was a look of glad re¬ 
lief and a sort of grim satisfaction. None of the 
others, apparently, noticed it; but I, at least, knew 
what had happened. Budd had missed the putt on 
purpose, because he did not want to win by an accident. 

Suddenly, the tension snapped. 

“What do you know about that?” Andy Kirk asked 
wonderingly. 

Budd, without comment, walked over to Barry and 
held out his hand. 

“That makes four for me and five for you,” he 
said. “With your handicap, we halve the hole, and 
you win the match, one up. Congratulations!” 
Barry took his outstretched hand and gripped it firmly, 
and Budd, with an embarrassed smile, avoided her 
eyes. “That sure was a poor putt of mine,” he added. 

“That putt of yours,” Barry told him quietly, “was 
one of the best you ever made.” 

And although the others looked up questioningly, 
two of us, at least, Budd Smith and I, understood 
what Barry meant. For she also realized that Budd, 
like the good sportsman that he was, had purposely 
missed his putt. 




CHAPTER XVII 


THE ELECTION 

S UNDAY was a long day. Restlessness gripped 
us; and in the afternoon a few of the girls 
came over to Barry’s and talked about the elec¬ 
tion. All of us were very serious about it, for we 
had begun to realize the significance of Mr. Meyers* 
proposal, and its possibilities. 

“No matter who’s elected to be mayor, or on the 
Common Council,” Barry said, “we’re all going to be 
better citizens because of this School City of ours.” 

“I hope,” Mildred Hartmore put in, “that the boys 
won’t get sore over their defeat and try to start things.” 

“You’re counting your chickens,” Barry reminded 
her, “before they are hatched.” 

But Mildred refused to be squelched. 

“We’ve got the majority of votes,” she retorted. 
“And that’s all there is to it.” 

But when we gathered in the auditorium for the 
usual assembly on Monday morning, Mildred, who 
sat across the aisle from me, leaned over excitedly. 

“Anne Bristor and Beulah Smith aren’t here to¬ 
day,” she whispered. 

That was something we hadn’t counted on. There 
200 


THE ELECTION 


were, as I have said, only three more girls in school 
than boys, and we had felt rather safe with that ma¬ 
jority. But now, with two girls absent- 

“Maybe,” I whispered back, “they will be here this 
afternoon.” 

“If they’re not,” Mildred answered somberly, “I’ll 
ask Mr. Meyers to let them vote by proxy.” 

But the two girls did not report after lunch, and 
Mildred, stopping Barry and me in the corridor, re¬ 
garded us with glowing eyes. 

“With them away,” she announced, “we’ve got a 
majority of only one. And if something should go 
wrong-” Her prim lips set resolutely. “I’m go¬ 

ing in to see Mr. Meyers.” 

But when she suggested that Anne and Beulah be 
permitted to write their ballots at home, where they 
had been detained by illness, the school principal shook 
his head. 

“In a real election,” he said, “only those citizens 
who are able to go to the polls are permitted to vote. 
And we must follow the same procedure.” 

Mildred, leaving the office with mumbled comment, 
hurried to where a group of girls were waiting on the 
porch of the school. 

“Mr. Meyers won’t let them vote by proxy,” she 
announced. “And I think it’s a shame, too.” 

But the rest of us refused to take it quite so seriously. 

“After all, Mildred,” Dot Howard told her, “that 
kind of thing is just a part of the game.” 

201 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Mildred snorted. 

“It’s just like the boys to have all the luck,” she 
declared. “And if Andy Kirk is elected mayor, I— 
I’ll resign from school.” 

“Stop making a tragedy of it,” Mary Todd put in 
impatiently. “When you come right down to it, 
Andy’d probably be as good a mayor as any one else.” 

But Mildred only smiled just a bit contemptuously. 

“I’ll tell you what we might do,” she suggested. 
“We might send a closed car for Anne and Beulah, 
bring them over here to vote, and then take them home 
again.” 

“And probably have them catch their deaths doing 
it,” Barry answered. “No, sir-ee!” 

“But we’ve got to win,” Mildred argued. 

“We don’t have to,” Barry said quietly. Her brown 
eyes regarded us gravely. “After all, it isn’t the win¬ 
ning or the losing that counts,” she added. “It—it’s 
how we play the game.” 

“Bosh!” Mildred snapped. But she did not say 
anything more about the election; and when the bell 
rang for the first afternoon class, she followed us into 
the building without comment. Undoubtedly she had 
been impressed by Barry’s words—but just the same 
she wanted the girls of the school to win the election. 

At one-thirty, after the first period had been cut by 
ten minutes, Mr. Meyers called an assembly in the 
auditorium. 

“The polls will open in the manual training room 
202 



THE ELECTION 


in fifteen minutes,” he announced quietly. “Members 
of the faculty will act as tellers and will check off the 
ballots. The senior boys have made a dozen booths 
which have been put in readiness, and you will vote 
exactly as you would in a municipal election.’' 

He paused for a moment, while the school waited 
eagerly. 

“It is hardly necessary for me to tell you,” Mr. 
Meyers continued finally, “that in a certain sense the 
responsibility of citizenship is yours. In my opinion, 
you have nominated boys and girls who are well fitted 
for office, and I know that, when the election is com¬ 
pleted, you will accept the results without bitterness 
and work together unselfishly for the good of our 
School City.” His lined face lighted in a pleasant 
smile. “And may the best men win,” he concluded. 

After he sat down, the orchestra struck up the 
“Cranford Song of Victory” and we all arose to our 
feet and sang together. And then, at a nod from the 
principal, we filed out to our classrooms. 

The next two hours were more exciting than a foot¬ 
ball game. We could not all vote at once, of course; 
but a large crowd of us gathered in the manual train¬ 
ing room and watched excitedly while our fellow 
students entered the canvas booths, indicated their 
choices and handed the folded ballots to the three 
teachers who sat before a long table near the 
door. 

Mildred Hartmore, her face flushed and her pale 
203 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


eyes shining, held a copy of the school roll in her hand 
and checked off each individual voter. 

“I don’t think that any of the girls will dare to stay 
out of it,” she whispered. “But just to make sure, 
I’m keeping track.” 

Barry, who seemed to be the least excited of all of 
us, grinned amusedly. 

“As soon as you get out of school, Mildred,” she 
remarked, “you ought to enter politics.” 

“I expect to,” Mildred answered soberly. 

“Battling Hartmore, the big boss of the third 
ward!” Mary Todd announced oratorically. “Equal 
rights for women, and down with all men!” 

We all grinned, of course, but there was no answer¬ 
ing smile on Mildred’s face. 

“There goes Andy Kirk,” she said. 

We watched curiously as Andy received his ballot 
from “Doc” Oliver and walked quietly to one of the 
empty booths. A minute later he reappeared, handed 
in his folded slip, and started for the door. He did 
not so much as glance at us as he passed, and he would 
have gone on without even a nod if Mildred hadn’t 
stopped him. 

“Oh, Andy!” she called. “You’re going to wait and 
hear the results, aren’t you?” 

Andy looked up frowningly. 

“No,” he answered, “I’ve got to get up to baseball 
practice.” 

Mildred smiled cynically. 

204 




THE ELECTION 


“A good excuse,” she said. 

“What’s that?” 

“Nothing!” 

Andy’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to say 
something. But after a moment, he compressed his 
lips, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked out 
the door without further word. 

Barry turned to Mildred, her own eyes somber. 

“There wasn’t any need for that,” she said quietly. 

But Mildred was excited, and her nerves were all 
jumpy. 

“I just wanted to see what he’d say when he found 
that he had lost,” she explained. 

“He hasn’t lost yet,” Barry reminded her. 

“But he’s going to.” 

We relapsed into silence, vaguely disturbed at Mil¬ 
dred’s attitude. Rivalry was a good thing, of course, 
but there didn’t seem to be any necessity for injecting 
bitterness into it. And if Mildred had only been 
decent about it, Andy, we knew, would have accepted 
defeat without protest. But now, after the mean 
things Mildred had said, we were frankly doubtful. 
For Andy had a large number of followers in the 
school, and if he cared to organize opposition to the 
new governing body, he was in a position to cause a 
good deal of trouble. And then the whole school 
would be divided, and the School City would be just 
a huge joke. 

I could see by the look on Barry’s face that the 
205 





BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


same possibility had occurred to her; but she did not 
say anything. After a time, Budd Smith came in, 
nodded cordially, and received his ballot. 

“Budd is sure to be a member of the Council,” Dot 
Howard said. “He’s the most popular man in the 
junior class.” 

“He ought to have been nominated for mayor,” 
Mildred declared. 

“Only seniors are eligible.” 

“I know—worse luck!” 

When Budd came out of the booth, he was still 
grinning. 

“I see the women’s party is out in force,” he 
said. 

“Good luck to you, Budd!” Barry told him. 

“Thanks! The same to you.” 

“Does that mean,” Mildred asked eagerly, “that you 
voted for her?” 

“No,” Budd answered bluntly. 

Mildred’s face fell. 

“Boys are all alike,” she remarked disgustedly. 

“Sure!” Budd agreed. 

He joined a group of boys in the comer, evidently 
having decided to stay away from baseball and track 
practice. 

“That’s the difference between him and Andy,” Mil¬ 
dred declared. “Budd’s interested in things.” 

“We all are,” Mary Todd answered placatingly. 
“Almost every one’s voted now, haven’t they?” 

206 




THE ELECTION 


“I haven’t,” Barry announced. “Come on, Jane, 
let’s get it over with.” 

We entered adjoining booths; and, as soon as 
I was alone, I opened the rather long ballot, picked 
up a pencil fastened to the shelf with a string, and 
checked off Barry’s name for mayor. Hugh Potter 
and I were the two candidates for councilman-at-large, 
but it was a sort of unwritten rule at the school that 
a person running for office always voted for his op¬ 
ponent, so I cast my ballot for Hugh. It occurred to 
me as I did so that, in real elections, a man generally 
voted for himself, as a party principal; but after all, 
this was different. For we were friends and school¬ 
mates and—and well, I cast my ballot for Hugh. For 
the two senior representatives, I checked the names of 
Mildred Hartmore and Dot Howard. Then I handed 
in the slip and waited for Barry. 

In another ten minutes, Mr. Meyers, after consulta¬ 
tion with the tellers, announced that the election had 
been completed. Then, while we waited breathlessly, 
the count began. 

For some reason or other, it was decided to count the 
freshmen votes first; and after the last name had been 
checked, it was found that Hal Havens had beaten 
Freda Rogers by a count of thirty-five to twenty-two. 
Our two political parties did not reach to the lower 
classes, except in the case of the mayor and councilman- 
at-large, and the result was determined purely on the 
basis of popularity. But Hal Havens was a nice little 
207 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


fellow, and no one complained. Even Mildred ac¬ 
cepted the verdict in silence. 

In the sophomore class, two boys had been nomi¬ 
nated, and Bob Dixon won from Jim Ackley, twenty- 
six to twenty. Then we turned to the juniors. 

“I hope,” Mildred whispered, “that Mary gets in. 
We’ll need her on the Council.” 

“She’ll have to beat out either Budd Smith or Bill 
Woodruff,” Barry answered. “And it’s going to be 
close.” 

But the ballot showed that Budd was high man with 
sixteen votes, and Mary second with eleven. Bill 
Woodruff, two counts behind Mary, came over to us 
when the result was announced and held out his 
hand. 

“Good stuff!” he said. “And I congratulate you.” 

“You deserved to get it, Bill,” Mary answered. 
“And I’m sorry that there can’t be three of us on the 
Council.” 

“Thanks!” 

Mildred Hartmore stirred restlessly. 

“Now,” she announced hoarsely, “we’ll see how the 
seniors stand.” 

There were eighteen members of the class, eleven 
girls and seven boys, and the result was almost a fore¬ 
gone conclusion, as the girls had decided to stand to¬ 
gether. But when the result was announced, it was 
found that Mildred had twelve votes, Dot Howard 
eleven, Tom Borden seven, and Ted Barkley six. 

208 



THE ELECTION 


Mildred, grinning triumphantly, turned to us with 
gleaming eyes. 

“A regular landslide,” she said. 

But Barry’s face was troubled. 

“I wonder how it happened,” she asked, “that you 
had one more vote than Dot?” 

Mildred’s smile broadened. 

“I voted for myself, of course,” she answered. 

“Oh!” 

Mildred turned almost defiantly. 

“That’s what they do in real elections, isn’t it?” she 
demanded. 

“I suppose so.” But it was easy to see that Barry 
considered it poor sportsmanship—and the rest of us 
agreed with her. 

But we forgot the matter for a time when the tellers 
began to count the ballots for councilman-at-large. 
This was the first real battle between the girls and boys 
of the school, and we were anxious to find out whether 
our campaign had been worth while. For the switch¬ 
ing of a single vote would mean victory or defeat. 

But evidently both sides had stood firm, for when 
the last ballot was counted, Hugh Potter had seventy 
votes, and I had seventy-one. 

Mildred Hartmore’s pale face lighted happily. 

“We win,” she announced joyfully. “That’s the 
big test, and Barry’s going to be elected mayor.” 

A few minutes later, the count began. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


THE MAYOR 

W E waited with ill-concealed excitement as 
Mr. Meyers' hoarse voice broke the 
silence of the crowded rooms. 

“Barry Browning!” 

“Andy Kirk!” 

“Another for Barry!” 

“One for Andy!” 

It seemed almost as if the votes came in rotation, 
first for one candidate and then for the other. Once 
or twice Barry swept into the lead, and with hardly 
more than a dozen ballots left, she seemed certain of 
victory. But the next four votes were for Andy; and 
when Mr. Meyers waited for a moment to puzzle over 
one of the slips, the score was sixty-five to sixty-four 
in favor of Andy. 

“The next few minutes will tell the tale,” Mary 
Todd whispered. 

“Barry’s sure to be chosen,” Mildred said. 

The principal resumed his count. 

“Barry!” he announced. 

It was all even now, with eleven votes remaining. 
210 


THE MAYOR 


“Andy!” 

Some one snickered nervously, and Mr. Meyers 
frowned. 

“Andy!” 

Mildred Hartmore’s face clouded. 

“It’s got to come out all right,” she rasped hoarsely. 

Barry was standing a little to one side, gazing out 
of the window. But although she smiled, I could see 
that her hands were clenched tightly at her sides and 
the old spirit of battle glowed in her eyes. I knew, 
then, that Barry wanted to win. 

“Andy!” Mr. Meyers called. 

That gave Andy a three-vote lead, and the count 
was almost over. For the first time, the possibility of 
Barry’s defeat occurred to me. It didn’t seem pos¬ 
sible, and yet the ballots were speaking for themselves. 

“Andy!” 

Four votes in the lead, and only seven left! Mil¬ 
dred Hartmore’s eyes were questioning, doubtful; but 
Barry continued to look out of the window, her face 
impassive. Impulsively, I walked over and stood be¬ 
side her. But I did not say anything. There was 
nothing to say. 

Then, suddenly the trend of the voting changed. 

“Barry!” 

Mildred Hartmore smiled. 

“Another for Barry!” 

Mildred’s smile broadened. 

“It will be all right now,” she said. 

211 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Mr. Meyers squinted at the next ballot. 

“Barry Browning!” he announced finally. 

We breathed easier then. For Andy was leading 
by only a single vote, and four more ballots remained 
in the box. 

The next vote was also for Barry. 

One of the boys in the group around the table 
cleared his throat huskily. We all crowded closer. 
Three votes left! Only three! 

“Barry!” 

One of the girls squealed; I think it was Dot How¬ 
ard. Barry one point in the lead, and only two 
remaining! 

Mr. Meyers' hand shook as he picked out the next 
ballot. He was as excited as any of us. 

“Andy!” he announced. His voice trembled. 

Barry, turning away from the window, clasped her 
hands behind her. The rest of us waited breathlessly, 
too excited even to move. It occurred to me that 
Andy Kirk, by going to baseball practice, was missing 
the thrill of a lifetime. 

Mr. Meyers took a long time unfolding the next 
ballot. Not a person in the whole room spoke. We 
had every reason to believe, though, that the final vote 
was for Barry, for the count was seventy to seventy, 
and the girls of the school had a majority of one. I 
tried to catch Barry’s eye to reassure her, but she was 
looking at the ballot in Mr. Meyers’ hand. 

The principal opened it carefully, smoothed it out, 
212 




THE MAYOR 


and examined it with curious eyes. When he looked 
up, his face was expressionless. 

“The last vote,” he announced slowly, “is for Andy 
Kirk.” 

A gasp from Mildred Hartmore was the first sound 
that broke the ensuing silence. 

“The first mayor of the Cranford School City,” 
Mr. Meyers said, “is Andy Kirk.” His eyes searched 
the group of boys crowded about the table. “Where 
is Andy?” he asked. 

“Out to baseball practice,” Budd Smith answered. 
“We’ll let him know, though, just as soon as we can 
find him.” 

With much pushing and jostling, the boys tramped 
out of the room and went in search of our new mayor, 
Andy Kirk. 

“I suppose,” Barry declared quietly, “that there’s 
nothing for us to do now except to go home.” 

Because there were teachers present, we waited to 
discuss the election until a small group of us had gath¬ 
ered on the porch of the school. Once, there, Mil¬ 
dred Hartmore regarded us with flashing eyes. 

“There’s a traitor among us,” she announced im¬ 
pressively. “And what are we going to do about it?” 

In spite of the fact that we were all pretty much 
disappointed over Barry’s defeat, Mildred’s tense ear¬ 
nestness was almost funny. Mary Todd, her face 
grave but her eyes dancing, held up her hand over her 
head, palm outstretched. 

213 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“What?” she asked dramatically. 

Mildred looked over at her suspiciously, then turned 
to Barry. 

“It’s up to you,” she said, “to take the lead in this 
thing.” 

Barry waited for a moment. She had made no com¬ 
ment since the result of the election had been an¬ 
nounced, but there was a hurt look about her eyes 
which I had never seen before, and now, unexpectedly, 
her lower lip trembled. But she spoke quietly enough. 

“There isn’t anything to do, Mildred,” she answered, 
“except to take our defeat like good sports—and let 
it go at that.” 

We knew then that Barry Browning was true blue. 
In victory she had always been generous; now, in de¬ 
feat, she had met the test without flinching. Of all 
the girls on the porch, only Mildred failed to appreci¬ 
ate her. 

“But, somehow, some girl of the school failed to 
keep her promise,” she contended. “And we’ve got 
to find her, and—and make an example of her.” 

But Barry shook her head. 

“No,” she said, “that’s ended. And it’s up to us 
now to stand behind Andy with all the loyalty that we 
possess.” 

Mildred’s glowing eyes regarded us resentfully. 

“How about the rest of you?” she demanded. 

“We’re with Barry,” Dot Howard told her. 

“Let’s forget it,” some one suggested. 

214 




THE MAYOR 


Barry grinned. 

“I’m going down to the Candy Kitchen,” she an¬ 
nounced, “and have a big plate of chocolate ice¬ 
cream.” 

So the incident, apparently, was ended. But later 
in the afternoon, when Barry and I had left the others 
and were walking home together, I brought up the 
subject again. 

“What do you think really happened ?” I asked. 

“I don’t know.” Barry’s eyes were somber. “It 
isn’t getting beaten that bothers me,” she admitted, “but 
—but it hurts, Jane, to think that there is some girl in 
the school who—who doesn’t like me enough to vote 
for me.” 

“Maybe,” I suggested, “some one just made a 
mistake.” 

“I don’t think it’s that.” She smiled wistfully. “I 
never knew before that I had an enemy at Cranford.” 

“You haven’t. It’s just-” 

But Barry interrupted me. 

“You’re a dear girl, Jane,” she said, “and you de¬ 
serve all the friends that you have. And if only one 
of us could be elected, I’m glad that it was you.” 

“But you’re not even a member of the Council.” 

“No,” Barry answered, “I’m just a common, or¬ 
dinary, everyday citizen.” Suddenly, her lips shut 
resolutely. “But even at that,” she added, “I can still 
give all that I have to the school.” 

I wanted to tell her, then, how much we all re- 

215 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


spected her for her attitude, but the words would 
not come, and we relapsed into silence. Over the 
week-end, neither of us mentioned the subject 
again. 

On Monday morning we met Andy Kirk in front 
of the school; and at the sight of us, he halted uncer¬ 
tainly. Barry, offering her hand, smiled into his ques¬ 
tioning eyes. 

“Congratulations!” she said. 

“Thanks, Barry!” 

But Andy did not act at all like a person who had 
just won a big victory. 

“When does the Council meet?” Barry asked him, 
after a moment of rather awkward silence. 

“This afternoon at three o’clock,” He turned to 
me. “You’ll be there, Jane?” 

“Yes.” 

Andy glanced over at Barry, and frowned. 

“You ought to be on the Council,” he said. 

“But I’m not,” Barry answered lightly. 

Somehow, the conversation wasn’t going very well. 
Andy seemed to want to say something which he didn’t 
quite know how to say, and his usually steady eyes 
shifted about uncertainly. 

“Guess I’ll hike along,” he said finally. 

When he had gone, Barry looked after him thought¬ 
fully. 

“Andy’s all right,” she declared. “I really believe 
he’s almost sorry to have beaten me.” 

216 




THE MAYOR 


But whatever may have been the matter with Andy, 
he took the responsibility of his new office very 
seriously. 

‘‘I have just had a long talk with Mr. Meyers,” he 
announced, when the Common Council had gathered 
in the history room, “and he has outlined some of our 
duties. Briefly, it lies with us to enforce all rules of 
the school which have already been adopted, to make 
whatever new rules we see fit regarding conduct in 
the building, to pass on the eligibility of athletes, and 
to punish violations for cheating in tests, and things 
like that” 

“What business is there before us to-day?” Dot 
Howard asked. 

“None that I know of, except to take oath of office.” 

“Let's do it, then.” 

The ceremony was simple but impressive. First 
Andy, then the rest of us, made solemn pledge to up¬ 
hold the honor of the school and to perform the duties 
of office to the best of our ability. And when we had 
finished, Andy cleared his throat huskily. 

“There really ought to be some one,” he said, “to 
draw ordinances and things like that. So I would 
suggest that we appoint a City Attorney.” 

“That would be up to the mayor, wouldn't it?” Mil¬ 
dred Hartmore asked. 

“Yes,” Andy answered, “and if you're willing, I’ll 
name Barry Browning.” 

Even Mildred admitted that Andy had done a fine 
217 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


thing; and when we advised Barry of the appointment, 
she accepted instantly. 

‘Til be glad,” she said quietly, “to be in things 
again. And thanks, Andy!” 

Andy mumbled something or other which we could 
not hear, and hurried off to baseball practice. But 
we felt, after that, that the success of our School City 
was assured. 

With the election over and the Council organized, 
however, there was little for us to do, and we found 
plenty of time to devote our attention to other things. 
Naturally, the girls turned to the tennis tournament, 
and on Tuesday afternoon, a large crowd of us drove 
out to the Country Club for the final match. 

It was a perfect spring day, with a hint of summer 
in the air. The courts were hard and firm and newly 
marked, the girls were all interested in the match; and 
even the boys omitted baseball and track practice and 
came up to watch us. 

Barry was, of course, the best player in school; but 
I enjoyed a handicap of plus fifteen and the general 
opinion seemed to be that the match would be a close 
one. The silver cup which we had purchased with 
the entrance fees was placed on a table on the porch. 
“Doc” Oliver consented to act as referee, and an¬ 
nounced shortly after four o’clock that “play will now 
start for the ladies’ championship of the Cranford 
High School.” 

The two of us walked out on the court together. 

218 



THE MAYOR 


Barry wore a white middy and skirt, with a pale blue 
band fastened around her head. Just before we 
started to “warm up,” she turned to me with spar¬ 
kling eyes. 

“This is the first time that we have ever met for 
a championship, Jane,” she said. “But we’ve each 
got to play our best, of course.” 

“Of course,” I answered. “And good luck to you, 
Barry!” 

Nevertheless, it occurred to me that it would be 
rather hard on Barry if she were defeated again. She 
had been so fine about the election, had taken the set¬ 
back so generously, that I felt that the tennis champion^ 
ship ought really to be hers, if only for compensation. 
And I felt, too, that the big majority of the spectators 
wanted Barry to win. For she was Barry, and the 
habit of winning was hers. 

But when, finally, the match began, I played as well 
as I could. For some reason or other, Barry made 
more errors than usual. She hit the ball just as hard 
as ever and her ground strokes whizzed like a bullet 
across the net; but she was weak overhead, and when 
I began to lob the ball, she smashed her returns out 
of court with startling regularity. Almost before we 
realized it, the first set had been completed, and I had 
won, six to three. 

When we changed courts for the second set, Barry 
stopped for an instant and patted me on the shoulder. 

“Good work!” she whispered. “I’m glad, Jane.” 

219 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


There was no doubting her sincerity; and at the 
sight of her flushed face and shining eyes, I felt 
vaguely ashamed, as if I was doing something that I 
had no right to do. And suddenly I knew that I didn’t 
want to beat Barry Browning—that I wanted her to 
win the championship. 




CHAPTER XIX 


THE TRACK CHALLENGE 

A S we began the second set, we could sense 
the growing excitement among the specta¬ 
tors on the porch of the Country Club. 
Barry, speeding up her game, sent booming drives to 
the back court, rushed desperately to the net and cut 
off my returns by neat slices to the side lines. But 
as soon as I started to lob again, she lost her effective¬ 
ness, so that I won the second game, and the third. 

“The score,” Mr. Oliver announced, “is two to one, 
Miss Barr leading!” 

Barry, holding the ball in readiness for service, 
looked over at me and smiled. And it was that smile 
which decided things. Cup or no cup, I knew that I 
could not win the championship from such a good 
sport as Barry. 

It occurred to me, even as I made the decision, that 
possibly I was not playing entirely square. For it had 
always been a part of our code that whenever we went 
into a thing, it was up to us to do our best. But in 
this case, I told myself grimly, it was different. For 
I was not playing for the school; it was my own per- 
221 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


sonal victory which hung in the balance, and if I chose 
not to take it, that was just my business, and no one 
else’s. 

So I stopped lobbing, trying, instead, to match 
Barry drive for drive, and failing miserably. She 
won the fourth game at love, ran out the fifth with the 
loss of only a point, and on her service, took the sixth 
game at love again. 

“The score,” the umpire announced in thunderous 
tones, “is four to two, Miss Browning leading/’ 

“Buck up, Jane!” some one called from the porch. 

Barry, her eyes shining, trotted back to position and 
waited for me to serve. She met the ball squarely 
and sent it to my back hand; and with a desperate 
swing, I crashed it into the net. 

Barry’s next return, however, gave me a splendid 
chance for a lob. When, instead of raising the ball 
high in the air, I drove it back low and hard, Barry 
shot it to a far corner and counted another point. 
Taking my place for service again, I looked up, to find 
Barry’s questioning eyes upon me. 

I knew then that it wouldn’t do to let Barry even 
suspect that I was purposely easing up in order to al¬ 
low her to win; so I fought harder during the re¬ 
mainder of the game, brought the score up to deuce, 
and finally won it. 

When the umpire announced that the score was four 
to three, the dawning suspicion in Barry’s eyes died 
away. 


222 




THE TRACK CHALLENGE 


“Good girl, Jane!” she called over the net. “Keep 
it up!” 

But I had no intention of keeping it up, and, al¬ 
though I played carefully, I managed to lose enough 
points to give Barry the set. But strangely, even 
though I told myself over and over again that I was 
doing a big thing, I did not feel particularly proud 
about it. And I could not understand why. 

We had decided earlier in the afternoon that in case 
a third set was necessary there would be a ten-minute 
intermission. So after Barry had brought the match 
to even terms, we leaned our rackets against the um¬ 
pire’s stool and walked to the clubhouse. Budd Smith, 
his homely face wreathed in smiles, nodded pleasantly. 

“Some match!” he said. “You’re getting to be a 
regular Lenglen, Jane.” 

“Barry’s off her game,” I told him. 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, cleared 
his throat, and then kept still. But I knew that he was 
tempted to tell me to lob the ball more, and that his 
sense of fair play prevented him. 

Barry, who had gone into the club for a drink of 
water, came out and joined us. 

“It surely is hot,” she remarked. “I feel like a 
baked apple.” 

“You don’t look like one,” Mary Todd answered. 

“You’re a little weak overhead,” Andy Kirk put 
in. “And if I were you, I’d rush the net more.” 

“I know,” Barry agreed. 

223 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Budd looked over at Andy and frowned. 

“You’re not the one playing the match,” he said 
bluntly. 

Andy grew slightly red at the realization that he 
had openly expressed his support of Barry. As if to 
make up for it, he turned eagerly to me. 

“And you want to lob more, Jane,” he declared. 

There was a moment of silence. 

“Whoever wins,” Mary Todd remarked, “it’s a 
good match and a close one.” 

Barry stood up. 

“Let’s go out on the court,” she suggested. 

There were still five minutes of the intermission 
left, but I followed Barry through the wire gate and 
sat beside her on one of the low benches bordering the 
court. 

“Jane,” she said quietly, “if I couldn’t win a thing 
on my own ability, or courage, or persistence, I’d a 
thousand times rather lose the greatest prize offered 
than have some one present me with it.” 

“Of course,” I agreed. “But why are you telling 
me that just now?” 

“I was just thinking,” she answered. 

People on the porch were probably wondering what 
under the sun we had found to talk about so seriously 
in the middle of a championship tennis match. But 
they did not know, of course, that in those few brief 
minutes before the resumption of play, the result of 
the match had been determined. For after what Barry 
224 




THE TRACK CHALLENGE 


had told me, I could not do otherwise than play my 
best. 

But the last set was by no means a walkover. 
Barry, refusing to accept victory as a gift, neverthe¬ 
less fought for it with all the skill and courage which 
she possessed. Undaunted by the weakness which the 
first two sets had disclosed, she directed her attack at 
my backhand, sending booming Lawfords to the left 
side of the court, and smashing my feeble returns for 
clean placement shots which left me helpless. 

She won the first game, and the second, while our 
fellow students on the porch probably told one another 
that, of course, Barry was going to win. It was no 
more than they had expected. 

In the excitement of the contest, however, in a des¬ 
perate attempt to give as good account of myself as 
possible, I forgot about them, forgot everything ex¬ 
cept the grim necessity of smashing the ball over the 
net, out of reach of Barry’s swinging racket. I knew: 
that my only chance lay in lobbing the ball, and so I 
lobbed it, playing carefully and deliberately and send¬ 
ing up “skyscrapers” which sailed so high that at 
times the ball seemed almost to merge with the blue 
of the sky. And gradually, as I continued these tac¬ 
tics, Barry became increasingly nervous. Several 
times in the third game, her racket turned in her hand; 
and, although she fought just as hard as ever, she was 
no longer the aggressor. And she lost the game, after 
deuce had been called four times. 

225 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“The score,” the umpire announced, “is two to one, 
Miss Browning leading.” 

We were both growing a bit tired from our strenu¬ 
ous efforts, but we did not let down for an instant. 
It seemed almost wrong to me to be playing against 
Barry, to be trying to beat her when I really wanted her 
to win. But I knew now that there was only one thing 
to do—to give the best that I had to the job on hand. 
For Barry had showed me that to the victor belongs 
the honors that are rightfully his. 

So we fought on, grimly, but without bitterness. 
Barry’s overhand became steadier in the fourth game, 
so that she won again and made the score three to 
one. But she weakened almost immediately, netting 
the ball with increasing frequency and giving me the 
next two games on her own errors. 

With the score at three all, we both called upon our 
reserve forces, ignoring the weariness which began to 
creep into our arms, indifferent to the applause which 
greeted each succeeding point, concentrating on the 
task before us—and intent on victory. Barry won 
the seventh game, and swept into the lead. 

Luck was with me in the next few minutes, how¬ 
ever, for three times my return shots barely clipped 
the side line. Mr. Oliver’s voice seemed, somehow, 
very far away: 

“The score is now four all, Miss Browning serving!” 

Budd Smith and Andy Kirk left the porch and 
walked out to the side of the court. The ninth game 
226 



THE TRACK CHALLENGE 


began, and again I was lucky, winning it when a 
booming drive from Barry’s racket missed the back 
line by inches. Only a single game, then, stood be¬ 
tween me and victory. 

In clear view on the table in the next court, the 
silver loving cup gleamed in the sunlight. Even in 
the tense excitement of the final game, I wanted Barry 
to win it. And yet I knew that it was up to me to 
keep her from doing so if I could. 

And so, directly after serving, I rushed to the back 
court, waited for Barry’s return, and lobbed the ball. 
And Barry, just a bit over-anxious, crashed it into 
the net. 

But with the score at forty-love, she made her last 
desperate effort, undaunted by the cloud of defeat 
which hung over her. It was a heroic stand, and my 
heart went out to her. I continued to lob the ball, 
however; but Barry, setting herself for the stroke, 
twice smashed it into the far corner of the court. 

“The score,” Mr. Oliver announced hoarsely, “is 
forty-thirty.” 

A single point separated me from victory. With 
weary arms, I raised my racket and tossed up the ball. 
It skimmed over the net without touching, and Barry, 
returning it neatly, dashed to the center of her court 
and waited for the inevitable lob. But instinctively 
it occurred to me that now was the time for a change 
of tactics. So instead of lobbing, I shot the ball like 
a streak down the side lines. The unexpected stroke 
227 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


caught Barry off her balance; she made a desperate 
lunge—and missed. 

“Point, set, and match!” Mr. Oliver announced. 
“Miss Barr wins the championship, two sets to 
one.” 

Very slowly, not quite able to realize my good for¬ 
tune, I advanced to the net, where Barry was waiting. 
As our hands clasped, her clear brown eyes were 
shining. 

“It’s fine!” she said. “And I’m glad, Jane, for 
both of us.” 

I wanted to tell her how wonderful she was, how 
brave and generous. But the words would not come. 

“Thank you!” I mumbled, and arm in arm, we 
walked to the porch together. 

At assembly the next morning, Andy Kirk, as mayor 
of the school, presented me with the loving cup. 
It was all nonsense, of course, and yet I could not help 
feeling thrilled about it. But I tried hard to be as 
modest in victory as Barry had been generous in 
defeat. 

And then, unexpectedly, Andy made an announce¬ 
ment. 

“We have just received a letter from the County 
Athletic Association,” he said, “inviting us to take 
part in a big track meet on Decoration Day. It’s go¬ 
ing to be something different this time, a meet in which 
both the girls and the boys of the schools will take 
part. And before calling the Common Council to- 
228 



THE TRACK CHALLENGE 


gether to consider the matter, I would like to know 
what the rest of you think about it.” 

After a moment of rather amazed silence, Tom 
Borden stood up. 

“I think it’s a fine thing,” he said, “and I move that 
Cranford take part in the meet.” 

“Second the motion!” some one called. 

“Any discussion?” Andy asked. 

Mr. Meyers, who was sitting on the platform, rose 
to his feet. 

“I agree with Tom,” he declared, “that it is a fine 
thing. In the past few years, as most of you know, 
the girls of our high schools, and of our grammar 
schools, too, have begun to take a more prominent 
part in interscholastic athletics. And as long as those 
athletics are not too strenuous, it is of real benefit to 
them. Here at Cranford we made a good beginning 
during basketball season, and now we are offered 
a second opportunity. And the faculty, I am sure, 
will approve of any action you may care to take.” 

“Are there two separate meets, one for girls and 
one for boys?” Dot Howard asked. 

“No,” Andy answered. “There are separate events, 
of course, but in the final result, the combined scores 
are to be counted.” 

“We’ll all be fighting then, side by side, for the 
school, won’t we?” Barry inquired. 

“Yes,” Andy told her, “we’ll all be working to- 
229 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


gether—for Cranford. Are you ready for the 
motion ?” 

We were not only ready, but eager, for it; and 
when Andy called for a vote, there was not a dissent¬ 
ing voice. 

“Good!” he said. “There will be a meeting of the 
Council this afternoon to arrange the details.” 

For the remainder of the day, the school buzzed 
with excitement. After the ten o’clock hour, a small 
group of girls gathered in the corridor and discussed 
the affair in lowered voices. 

“It’s just the chance we’ve been waiting for,” Dot 
Howard declared. “And Miss Embree said a little 
while ago that she would coach us.” 

“But we don’t know anything about track.” 

“We can learn, though.” 

Mildred Hartmore’s pale eyes gleamed. 

“And we’ll have another chance to show the boys 
something,” she declared. 

The rest of us frowned, but it was Barry who 
answered. 

“This isn’t any girl-and-boy affair,” she announced 
quietly. “It’s all of us now, working our hardest— 
for the school.” 




CHAPTER XX 


TRACK 

A T the Council meeting on Monday afternoon, 
Andy explained in detail the plan of the 
County athletic meet. 

“It will be held at Woodbridge on Decoration Day,” 
he said, “and there will be ten events, six for the boys 
and four for the girls. The school counting the 
largest number of points will be awarded the banner 
emblematic of the championship.” 

He choked a bit over the word “emblematic,” but 
none of us noticed. 

“What are the events?” Dot Howard asked. 

“For boys, the hundred-yard dash, four-hundred- 
forty-yard dash, half-mile run, two-mile run, shot put, 
and high jump,” Andy answered. “For girls, a fifty- 
yard dash, seventy-yard low hurdles, broad jump, and 
throwing the baseball.” 

“How many schools will enter teams?” 

“I don’t know, four or five, anyhow.” Andy’s eyes 
shone. “Wouldn’t it be fine,” he inquired eagerly, 
“if we could win it?” 


231 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“It sure would/' Budd Smith answered grimly. 
“Anyhow, we can try our hardest." 

“How about baseball?" Barry asked. 

Andy frowned slightly at that. 

“To tell the truth, Barry," he said, “our baseball 
team isn’t any world-beater this year. The County 
League ends on May 24, anyhow, and that will give 
us almost a week to practice for the track meet." 

“But the girls," Mildred Hartmore put in, “can 
start right away." 

“Yes," Andy told her. The antagonism which 
Mildred always awakened in him came to the surface 
again. “But, of course," he added, “you’ve never 
done any track work, and we can’t expect you to make 
much of a showing." 

“Is that so?" Mildred retorted. 

“At any rate," Barry declared diplomatically, “we 
can have a lot of fun out of it." 

“I move," Budd suggested, “that the City Attorney 
write to the county authorities accepting the invitation 
to enter the meet.” 

“Second the motion!" 

Andy turned to Barry. 

“Would you mind doing that?" 

“I’ll do it this afternoon," she answered. 

“That’s all, then." 

“Just a minute!" It was Budd who spoke. “I 
think," he continued, “that we ought to lay down cer¬ 
tain eligibility rules for those taking part in the meet." 

232 



TRACK 


“Why?” Andy asked. 

“That’s one of the functions of the Common Coun¬ 
cil, isn’t it? To uphold the scholastic standards of the 
school, as well as other things?” 

“Yes,” Andy agreed. 

“I move,” Bud said, “that no student of the school 
can be on the Cranford track team unless he has a 
passing grade in all of his subjects.” 

No one answered for a moment; and yet, even as 
he hesitated, we realized that Budd was right. For 
we came to school to study, and not to win track 
meets. 

“Second the motion!” Dot Howard called. 

Andy’s eyes were dubious, but he did not evade the 
issue. 

“Those in favor say ‘aye’!” 

There was no dissenting vote; but after we had 
passed the motion, we were rather appalled at the 
standard we had set up. 

“We’ve got to go some now,” Bob Dixon said. 

“Sure,” Budd answered, “that’s what we’re here 
for—to go.” 

Mr. Meyers was frankly pleased at the action we 
had taken. 

“Already,” he declared, “you’re showing that you 
are not unmindful of your responsibilities. And I 
think that self-government at Cranford is here to 
stay.” 

It was announced to the school the following morn- 
233 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


ing that Cranford had sent in its entry to the County 
Meet and that only those students in full standing 
could participate. 

‘‘There will be a meeting of the girls at three 
o’clock,” Mr. Meyers concluded, “in order to elect a 
track captain.” 

But after a large crowd of us had gathered in the 
auditorium, we hardly knew what to do. None of us 
had ever taken part in a track meet, and we did not 
know a thing about it. But Miss Embree, the teacher 
who had coached our basketball team, came to the 
rescue. 

“I would suggest,” she said, “that you wait for a 
week or two until you find out who is likely to make 
the team. Then you can elect a captain on the basis 
of ability.” 

“And will you coach us?” Mary Todd asked. 

“Yes, Til be glad to.” 

“Can we practice this afternoon?” 

“To-morrow will be a better time to start, I think.” 
Miss Embree smiled at our eagerness. “You mustn’t 
expect to break any world’s record for a while,” she 
added. 

We did, however, expect to make as good a show¬ 
ing as the girls of the other schools. Track was an 
unknown factor to all of us, so we were given a fair 
start and an even chance—and we did not ask for more. 

But we found, after the first few days of practice, 
that track work was not quite so easy as it looked. 

234 



TRACK 


Almost a dozen girls went out for the fifty-yard dash; 
and while the running itself was simple enough, we 
found it hard to master the crouching start and to get 
off the mark in the right way. But Miss Embree, 
who had had a good deal of experience in college, was 
a splendid teacher, and under her tutelage we improved 
rapidly. 

After another week had passed, our track team be¬ 
gan to take semblance of form. The coach assigned 
Dot Howard and Catherine Davis to the hurdles, Mary 
Todd and three or four of the younger girls to the 
baseball throw, Barry and Edith Elliott to the broad 
jump, and the rest of us to the fifty-yard dash. Barry, 
as we had expected, did better than any one else, and 
so we elected her captain. 

The days that followed were filled with work and 
play, and pleasant companionship. Every afternoon 
found us on the athletic field; our cheeks grew rosy 
with the glow of health, our appetites increased, and 
when night came around we slept the dreamless sleep 
of the just. 

“Even if we don't capture a single point in the 
meet," Barry declared, “this track team of ours has 
been very much worth while." Her dark eyes re¬ 
garded us smilingly. “You look like a group of 
Greek athletes," she concluded. 

We found time, of course, to give some attention 
to other matters. Naturally, interest in the baseball 
team waned a bit, and when we lost three of the next 
235 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


four games, we knew that our chances to win the 
county pennant had gone. But we accepted the situ¬ 
ation without complaint, and looked forward to Deco¬ 
ration Day with increasing eagerness. 

“Now that we’ve got Bill Sanders to run for us,” 
Andy Kirk announced, “we have at least an even 
chance to win the banner.” 

Since the afternoon of the golf match, we had seen 
less and less of Bill Sanders. During the past few 
weeks he had gradually drifted away from the high 
school crowd, and we knew that he spent a good deal 
of his time at the Hilton Athletic Club, an organiza¬ 
tion composed chiefly of factory boys who lived in 
the downtown district. Two or three times we had 
passed him on the street smoking cigarettes. But 
there was no doubt of the fact that his new friends 
looked upon him as their leader; and that, I think, was 
the reason he went with them so much. 

We were glad, of course, that we had not elected 
him a member of the Honor Club. But we did not 
see any reason why we should not be friends with 
him, and there was no denying the fact that he was the 
fastest runner in school. He could beat Andy Kirk 
by thirty yards in both the half and the quarter, and 
we fully expected him to win both of these events in 
the County Meet. He expected to himself, and did not 
make any bones about it. 

“When Decoration Day comes around,” he said, 
“I’ll show these rubes a thing or two.” 

236 



TRACK 


“You probably will,” Budd agreed, “if you keep in 
shape and do as well as you’ve done in practice. But 
you mustn’t forget that you’re in training and that 
we’ve passed the rule that no one on the team can 
smoke.” 

“Humph!” Bill grunted, and turned away without 
further comment. 

“I haven’t much faith in him,” Mildred Hartmore 
said, after he had trotted down the track. “He isn’t 
to be trusted.” 

“He’ll be all right,” Budd answered. “He wants 
to win for Cranford as much as the rest of us do.” 

“He may want to win,” Mildred retorted, “but it’s 
more for himself than for the school.” 

On Saturday, when the boys held a dual meet with 
Westfield, Bill Sanders was the big star of the team. 
He won both the middle distance runs, and then, just 
to show how good he really was, he entered the high 
jump and took second place. Chiefly through his 
efforts, Cranford defeated the visiting team rather 
easily; and in view of the fact that Westfield was one 
of the strongest schools in the county, we began to 
cherish visions of victory in the big contest on Decora¬ 
tion Day. 

“If you girls can hold up your end of things,” Andy 
told us, “we might get that banner, after all.” 

“You needn’t worry about us,” Mary Todd assured 
him. 

To tell the truth, we did feel rather proud of our- 
237 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


selves. Miss Embree, who knew how to judge such 
things, announced that our performances were well 
above the average, especially in the hurdles and high 
jump. 

“We’re almost sure of eight or ten points in those 
two events,” she said, “and if we can pick up a few 
more in the baseball throw and fifty-yard dash, we’ll 
be doing more than our share.” 

And so, as the days passed with brightening pros¬ 
pects of victory, the school began to look forward with 
growing enthusiasm to the time of the meet. Even 
continued reverses on the part of the baseball team 
failed to dampen our spirits; and although Andy Kirk 
was a bit gloomy over the failure of the nine to make 
at least a fair showing, he was a good sport about it. 

“We can’t always win,” he declared sturdily, “and 
as long as the fellows are doing their bes-t, we haven’t 
any right to kick.” 

It was rather unusual for Andy to take defeat in 
that way, and we could not quite understand it. But 
when we came to think about it, it occurred to us that 
Andy had changed quite a lot during the past weeks, 
ever since the school election, in fact. He was less 
aggressive than usual, he held his naturally quick tem¬ 
per in check, and he was actually considerate of other 
people. 

“He surely has changed,” Mary Todd declared, 
when one of us remarked about it. “I think that the 
fact that he’s mayor of the school is responsible for it.” 

238 



TRACK 


“He acts to me like a fellow who’s done something 
he’s ashamed of and wants to make amends,” Mildred 
Hartmore put in. 

“Nonsense!” Mary told her. 

But whatever the reason, Andy had changed; and 
when he and Budd stopped in at Barry’s house on the 
evening before the final baseball game, we gladly ac¬ 
cepted his invitation to go downtown to the “movies.” 

It was a perfect night, with myriad stars dotting 
the blue sky, and so we decided to walk. The talk, 
naturally, turned to the coming track meet, and Budd 
waxed enthusiastic. 

“If things go well,” he said, “we ought to win it by 
about ten points. You’ve heard, haven’t you, about 
Mr. Albertson’s offer ?” 

“No,” Barry answered, “what is it?” 

“He’s put up a big loving cup for that student of the 
high school who does the most for the Cranford team.” 

Barry’s eyes shone. 

“When did he do that?” 

“This afternoon; it was in to-night’s paper.” 

“That’s great, isn’t it?” 

“It sure is.” 

Mr. Albertson was one of the merchants in town, 
who was always doing something like that for the 
school. 

“Bill Sanders will get it, of course,” Andy declared. 

“I suppose so.” 

Rounding a corner, we were just about to pass the 
239 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


entrance to the building where the Hilton Athletic 
Club had its rooms, when Bill himself came out. Or¬ 
dinarily, we would have passed him with a brief nod; 
but this time we halted in our tracks and regarded him 
with wondering eyes. For between the thumb and 
forefinger of his right hand, he held a lighted cigarette; 
and even as we looked, he raised it to his lips. 

‘‘Hello!” he said easily. “Nice night, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Budd answered. Then his jaw set. 
“You’re smoking.” 

Bill took the cigarette from his mouth and regarded 
it thoughtfully. 

“So I am,” he agreed. 

“You know, don’t you,” Budd asked him, “that 
that kind of thing is against the rules of the team?” 

“Probably.” Bill smiled indifferently. “It won’t 
hurt me, I guess.” 

But there was no answering smile on Budd’s face. 

“We’ll have to put it up to the Common Council,” 
he announced quietly. 

“You mean that toy governing body up at the 
school?” 

“Yes.” 

Bill’s smile broadened. 

“They won’t do anything, of course,” he declared. 
“The whole thing’s just a big joke.” 

“If they should drop you from the team,” Budd an¬ 
swered, “it wouldn’t be quite such a joke as you think 
it is.” 


240 



TRACK 


But the other boy continued to grin. 

“They wouldn’t dare do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“If I don’t run, Cranford can’t win the meet.” 
Suddenly, Bill turned. “See you to-morrow,” he 
called over his shoulder, and reentered the building. 

After he had gone, Budd turned somber eyes to us. 

“Andy,” he said, “it’s up to the Council to take 
action.” 

“Yes,” Andy agreed. But he spoke heavily, and 
there was no enthusiasm in *his voice; only doubt and 
uncertainty. For he knew that if the Council decided 
to drop Bill Sanders from the team, our chances of 
winning the County Meet would go a-glimmering. 
And for a long time now, we had wanted to win, and 
had looked forward confidently to victory. 

The Council could, of course, discipline Bill in some 
other way. But if it did, what about our School City? 

*<Oh, gee!” Budd groaned. 

But Andy said never a word. 



CHAPTER XXI 


THE SQUARE THING 
N Monday afternoon the Common Council 



met at the call of the Mayor. Andy, his 


eyes somber, stated briefly the purpose of 


the meeting. 

“Bill Sanders/’ he said, “has broken a rule of the 
track team. And now it’s up to us to fix the penalty.” 

“What did he do?” Bob Dixon asked. 

“Four of us found him downtown Friday evening 
smoking a cigarette.” 

For a moment, no one spoke; and then Mary Todd 
cleared her throat huskily. 

“I move,” she said quietly, “that he be dropped 
from the track team.” 

“That will mean, of course,” Andy told her, “that 
we can’t win the County Meet on Decoration Day.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“Second the motion!” Dot Howard called. 

“Is there any discussion?” 

Budd Smith stood up. 

“As captain of the track team,” he said, “I feel 
pretty bad about the whole thing. But Bill Sanders 


THE SQUARE THING 


deliberately broke a rule that he knew existed, thinking 
probably that we would be afraid to do anything about 
it. But it seems to me that if the Cranford School 
City is to mean anything, if we measure up to the 
trust that Mr. Meyers has imposed on us, there’s only 
one action we can take. After all, there are greater 
things than victory.” 

“All in favor of the motion,” Andy announced, “will 
signify in the usual way.” 

“Aye!” we called. 

“Opposed?” 

No one spoke. 

“The motion has been carried,” Andy said, “and 
Bill Sanders will not be permitted to represent Cran¬ 
ford in the County Meet.” 

It was, of course, the only thing to do; and yet, 
when the meeting ended, our hearts were heavy with 
disappointment. For it isn’t the easiest thing in the 
world to hold victory in the hollow of your hand and 
then toss it away again as if it didn’t mean anything 
at all. 

“We’re sure out of luck,” Budd Smith remarked, 
when a short time later we had reported on the field 
for practice. “But at least we can make a fight of it.” 

“Here comes Bill,” Dot Howard whispered. 

We waited expectantly, and just a bit apprehensively, 
while Bill Sanders sauntered across the field. 

“Hello, fellows!” he said pleasantly. “How goes 
it?” 


243 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


Budd’s homely face was troubled, but he did not 
waver. 

“Bill,” he announced evenly, “at a meeting of the 
Common Council this afternoon, you were dropped 
from the track team.” 

The other boy’s eyes opened in stunned amazement. 

“What’s that?” he demanded. 

“You’re not on the track team, any more,” Budd 
told him. 

But still Bill seemed unable to understand. 

“Do you mean,” he asked, “that I can’t run on 
Decoration Day?” 

“That’s the general idea,” Budd answered grimly. 

Bill’s face darkened. 

“Who said I couldn’t?” 

“The Common Council.” 

“What have they got to do about it ?” 

“Everything.” 

Bill’s lips curled. 

“All right,” he decided. “But you know you’ll lose, 
of course?” 

“Yes,” Budd agreed, “we probably will.” 

“Then why in the world are you kicking me off?” 

“School spirit,” Budd told him. 

Just for a moment the other boy waited, as if he was 
about to say something in angry remonstrance. Then, 
unexpectedly, he shook his head, and walked away 
without a word. 

Budd, turning to us, smiled relievedly. 

244 




THE SQUARE THING 


“Now that that’s over with,” he suggested, “let’s 
get to work.” 

For the remainder of the afternoon we practiced 
hard, giving all that we had to the team. We were 
downcast, of course, and it wasn’t easy to face the 
prospect of defeat; but there was a certain grim res¬ 
olution about Budd that communicated itself to the 
rest of the team. In view of his undaunted leadership, 
we could not quit. 

We were still doubtful, however, as to how the 
action of the Council would be received by the school. 
But on Tuesday morning, when the announcement was 
made, no one uttered a single word of protest. We 
knew then that the Cranford spirit was stronger than 
victory, and that the School City had already justified 
its existence. 

In the afternoon, Budd called a meeting of the boys 
and rearranged our entries. 

“We’ll put Tom Borden and Bob Dixon in the 
hundred,” he said, “Hugh Potter and Glenn Charles 
in the quarter, and Andy and Hal Havens in the half. 
Hugh will have to run in the two-mile, also; and that 
leaves Andy and me for the high jump, and Bill Wood¬ 
ruff and me for the shot put. It isn’t as strong as the 
old combination—but it will have to do.” 

But none of us were at all enthusiastic about it. 
Hal Havens was a pretty good half-miler, but as a 
runner, Andy Kirk was something of a joke. He had 
rather an awkward stride which carried him along at a 
245 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


fairly fast pace, but for the life of him he could not 
sprint; and when the end of the race came, he ran no 
faster than at the beginning. 

“Andy could probably keep on running all night,” 
Barry said. “But he can only run at a certain speed, 
and that isn’t fast enough.” 

“But at least,” Budd put in, “we know he won’t 
quit.” Suddenly he grinned. “Maybe some of the 
other entries will drop dead,” he added. 

So we tried to make the best of it; and, strangely, 
as the week wore on, some of our former confidence 
returned. With Bill Sanders on the team, we had ex¬ 
pected to win by ten or fifteen points; now, with Bill 
off, we began to ask ourselves why we couldn’t win 
anyhow. 

“The points will be divided among five schools,” 
Budd Smith argued, “and if we can count about 
twenty points, maybe we’ll come out ahead, after all.” 

“Stranger things have happened,” Barry agreed. 
“And we’ll go after the victory, anyhow.” 

But whether we won or lost, we were assured of the 
support of the school; for at one o’clock on Decora¬ 
tion Day, more than a hundred students crowded into 
the railroad train which took us to Woodbridge. 
They filled one whole section of the stands; and after 
we had dressed and appeared on the field, they all rose 
to their feet and sent the old Cranford cheer ringing 
across the track. Barry, her eyes shining, turned 
eagerly to me. 


246 



THE SQUARE THING 


“After that, Jane,” she said, “we can’t do anything 
but our best.” 

It occurred to me at that moment that Barry was 
still the same dauntless leader she had always been. 
Suddenly, I thought of the cup which Mr. Albertson 
had offered. What a fine thing it would be if Barry 
should get it. She was almost sure of a first place in 
the broad jump, and if. . . . 

The thundering voice of the official announcer broke 
in upon my thoughts. 

“First call for the hundred-yard dash!” 

The meet was about to begin. 

When, about five minutes later, Bob Dixon won first 
place in his heat of the hundred-yard dash, we began 
to cherish visions of ultimate victory. For we had 
hardly expected Bob to score even a point, and now, 
if he could count five. . . . 

“Oh, boy!” Budd declared happily. “Watch us 
go!” 

At the word of the announcer, Freda Rogers and I 
took our places at the starting line for the fifty-yard 
dash for girls. We were nervous, so nervous that our 
knees shook; but I managed to take first place in the 
second heat, much to every one’s surprise, and to 
qualify for the finals. And that gave Cranford a 
possible ten points in two events. 

Out in the center of the field, the shot putters had 
already started their competition; and far across the 
track Dot Howard had reported for the baseball throw. 

247 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Last call for the quarter mile!” the announcer 
bellowed. 

But a boy from Plainfield won the race easily, with 
Woodbridge second, and Westfield third. That was 
the first definite score of the afternoon, and Cranford 
had been shut out. 

“Never mind,” Andy told us quietly, “the day’s 
young yet, and we’re not out of it by any means.” 

The next ten minutes proved the truth of his asser¬ 
tion, for Bob Dixon took second in the hundred; and, 
somehow or other, I managed to win the fifty-yard 
dash. And hardly had the cheering of the Cranford 
rooters died down, before it was announced that Budd 
had taken another first in the shot put. 

He grinned from ear to ear when he rejoined us on 
the bench which had been set aside for the Cranford 
team. 

“That gives us a total of thirteen points,” he an¬ 
nounced happily. “And Woodbridge, the next high¬ 
est team, has only ten. Oh, boy!” 

“Oh, boy!” we answered, and hurried across the 
field to see how the baseball throw was coming 
along. 

There, however, we were doomed to disappointment, 
for a Woodbridge entry won the event, with a throw 
of one hundred and ninety feet, and the best that Dot 
Howard could get was a third. But that brought our 
total up to fourteen points and, although Woodbridge 
was slightly in the lead, we still had an even chance 
248 




THE SQUARE THING 


for victory. A few minutes later, when Andy took 
second in the high jump, we were ahead again. 

While we waited for the hurdles to be put into place 
for the next event, Budd Smith scanned the score card 
in his hand with eager eyes. 

“The score at the present time,” he announced ex¬ 
citedly, “is as follows: Cranford seventeen, Wood- 
bridge fifteen, Westfield eight, Linden five, Plainfield 
eight.” 

“It looks now,” Barry answered, “as if the meet 
has narrowed down to Woodbridge and us. That’s 
the team we’ve got to beat in order to win.” 

“And we’ll do it, too,” Budd added grimly. 

We had rather hoped that Dot Howard would win 
the hurdle race, but a Woodbridge entry got off to a 
good start and led her across the finish line by a scant 
two feet. And that made the score all even, with 
three events remaining. 

“The next event,” Budd told us, “is the broad jump. 
And we’re counting on you, Barry.” 

Barry nodded, her lips set and her eyes shining. If 
she could win, it would bring our total to twenty-five 
points, and that, we felt, was enough to give us the 
victory. If Barry could only win! 

Practically the entire team crowded alongside the 
jumping pit just before the event began. 

“Each girl,” the field judge announced, “will have 
three trials. Are the scorers ready?” 

“Yes,” one of them answered. 

249 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Miss Browning, of Cranford!” 

Barry cleared twelve feet, six inches, on her first 
jump, the best she had ever done. 

“<Good stuff!” Andy called excitedly. “That’s 
enough to win, Barry.” 

But we had already learned not to count our chickens 
before they were hatched, and so we waited anxiously, 
with thumping hearts. But when the first round was 
completed, Barry’s mark was a good eight inches be¬ 
yond that of her nearest competitor. 

She did not do so well on her second trial, but 
neither did any of the others, and our visions of victory 
grew brighter. 

“She’ll get it, all right,” Budd Smith whispered 
hoarsely. “And that means the silver cup for 
Cranford.” 

The contestants settled themselves grimly for the 
third jump, while the stands stirred restlessly, and 
Andy Kirk paced up and down beside the pit, his face 
lined and his eyes worried. A Linden entry, straining 
every muscle, left the take-off board in a flying leap 
and landed in the soft sand, four inches beyond Barry’s 
mark. Our hearts sank like lead. 

“Foul!” the field judge announced crisply. 

We breathed easier then. 

“It’s all over,” Budd said. 

The last girl on the list jumped desperately, but in 
vain, and the judge conferred hastily with the scorers. 

“Results of the broad jump are as follows,” he said: 

250 



THE SQUARE THING 


“Browning, of Cranford, first; Halloway, of Linden, 
second; Engleman, of Woodbridge, third.” 

The long Cranford cheer burst from our eager 
rooters in the stands and Dot Howard rushed across 
the pit and hugged Barry openly. And then, a strange 
thing happened. 

Barry, shaking off Dot’s restraining arms, walked 
over to where the field judge was standing. 

“This meet is being held under the regular A. A. U. 
rules, isn’t it?” she asked evenly. 

The official, who was a teacher at Woodbridge, re¬ 
garded her doubtfully. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Why?” 

“According to the rules,” Barry said, “each con¬ 
testant in the broad jump is entitled to three prelim¬ 
inary jumps. The six highest entries are then entitled 
to three additional trials. So, you see, we haven’t 
finished, after all.” 

“I—I didn’t know,” the field judge stammered. 

“It’s right,” Barry told him. “I’ve looked it up in 
the rule book.” 

“I’ll have to speak to the referee about it.” 

Turning, the field judge beckoned to another man 
standing at the side of the track. 

“How about it?” he asked, and explained the cir¬ 
cumstances. The referee, without a moment’s hesita¬ 
tion, confirmed Barry’s ruling. 

“The six highest contestants,” he announced, “are 
entitled to three more jumps.” 

251 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“What do you know about that ?” Andy asked. 
Budd Smith’s face was grave, but his eyes were 
shining. 

“It was the square thing to do/’ he answered. 
“And—and we’ll have to hand it to Barry.” 

“Miss Browning!” the field judge called. 

With straining muscles, Barry dashed down the 
runway for the first of her three additional jumps. 



CHAPTER XXII 


THE CUP 


O N her fifth trial, Barry jumped just two 
inches beyond her former mark. 

“She'll win now," Andy Kirk announced 


happily. 

But a minute later the girl from Linden bettered her 
by a single inch. 

Dismayed, the members of the Cranford track team 
regarded one another with glowing eyes. 

“Barry has another chance," Budd declared quietly, 
“and she’ll come through. She always does." 

Dot Howard and I waited beside her while she 
gathered herself together for her final trial. She 
knew, of course, that upon her slim shoulders rested 
the glory of victory or the burden of defeat. But 
when the sharp voice of the field judge broke the tense 
silence which hovered over the field, she only smiled 
gravely. 

“Here goes!" she said. 

Gathering momentum with each succeeding stride, 
she ran like a deer toward the take-off board. Her 
rubber-soled shoe struck the baseboard with a dull 
thud, and for a moment, she seemed suspended in the 


253 


BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


air, her arms outflung, her muscles straining. Then, 
suddenly, she landed in a graceful heap in the soft 
sand of the pit. 

“Hurrah!” some one called. 

“She’s done it,” Dot whispered excitedly. “She’s 
broken the record.” 

Then, unexpectedly, the field judge raised his eyes, 
and shook his head almost regretfully. 

“Foul!” he said. 

Barry had leaped almost thirteen feet, but she had 
crowded the take-off board just an inch too much— 
and had lost. 

But as she climbed wearily out of the pit and walked 
to one side to await the completion of the event, there 
was no recognition of defeat in her eyes. For she 
knew, as did all of us, that, although beaten, an honor 
greater than victory was hers. 

We waited in silence until the last jump had been 
made, standing loyally beside Barry, faces to the front, 
chins upraised. 

“After all,” Budd remarked evenly, “we’ve done our 
best.” 

We were still in the lead, of course; but the two 
events remaining were the half-mile and the two-mile 
runs, and our runners, we knew, would be woefully out 
of it. 

“Results of the broad jump for girls,” the announcer 
called: “First, Halloway, of Linden; second, Brown¬ 
ing, of Cranford; third, Engleman, of Woodbridge.” 

254 



THE CUP 


Budd, jotting the results on his score card, figured 
the totals anxiously. 

“We’ve got twenty-three points,” he said, “and 
Woodbridge twenty-one. Maybe we’ll win the thing 
yet.” 

“Sure!” Andy answered. But his voice was heavy. 

Suddenly, we looked up, to find Bill Sanders stand¬ 
ing beside us. 

“Say, Budd,” Bill suggested eagerly, "I can borrow 
a suit if you want me to, and go in the half mile. I 
can win the thing easily, and—and bring the cup to 
Cranford.” 

Surprised, Budd glanced searchingly into his glow¬ 
ing eyes. 

“You’ve been dropped from the team,” Budd said. 

“But you can put me back. Andy, as Mayor, can 
reinstate me.” 

Suddenly, Andy stepped forward. 

“No,” he announced quietly, “you’re out of it, Bill.” 

“But it means victory!” 

“I know it does.” 

“And you won’t put me back?” 

“No.” 

Bill shrugged his shoulders in feigned indifference, 
but his eyes were puzzled. 

“This bunch is beyond me,” he muttered, and turned 
away. 

Barry, walking across to where Budd was standing, 
regarded him thoughtfully. 

255 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


“Budd,” she announced huskily, “I’ve got a sug¬ 
gestion to make.” 

“What is it?” 

“Put Andy in the two-mile, and keep him out of the 
half.” 

“Why?” 

Already, the announcer had sounded first call for 
the next event, and there was little time to waste. 

“Andy,” Barry explained hurriedly, “can’t run very 
fast, but he can keep up a certain pace for a long time. 
I’ve been thinking it over, and it seems to me that he’s 
really a long-distance man. Now, if he goes in the 
two-mile and just keeps on running at his own pace 
for the eight laps, he might win, Budd. And, anyhow, 
it’s our only chance.” 

Budd glanced up, dawning comprehension in his 
clear gray eyes. 

“There might be something to it,” he said. 

“There is,” Andy put in. “And I’m going to do 
it, Budd.” 

“All right,” the team captain agreed. “I’ll tell the 
referee that we’ve taken you out of the half.” 

We waited, then, for the final event, hope battling 
with doubt. In the half-mile, Hal Havens made a 
good race of it, but finished only fourth. A Wood- 
bridge entry slipped into third position and brought 
the total score of his team to twenty-two. Cranford 
had twenty-three. 

“It’s up to you, Andy,” Budd said. 

256 



THE CUP 


Grim-lipped, Andy took his place at the starting line. 
He had never run the two-mile before, and did not 
know anything about it. But during the past few 
minutes he had mapped out his campaign. 

‘Til set a fairly fast pace from the beginning/’ he 
had explained to us, “and keep it up until I can’t go 
on for another yard.” 

Andy, we knew, would continue to run until the last 
atom of strength had gone from his muscled limbs. 
Of his courage there was no doubt, of his fighting 
ability, no question. His staunch heart was ready for 
the test. But could he meet it ? 

“Get on your marks!” the starter rasped. 

The ten runners crouched tensely, waiting. 

“Get set!” 

They leaned forward. 

The gun barked. 

Andy, second from the pole, took the lead at once, 
settling easily into his awkward stride. Behind him, 
the other entries dug their spiked shoes into the yield¬ 
ing cinders. The Cranford rooters, puzzled at Andy’s 
unexpected appearance, nevertheless cheered loyally. 

“It’s up to him,” Budd announced evenly. “And 
I have a hunch that he’s going to do it.” 

On the far side of the track the runners were pound¬ 
ing along, as yet fresh and unwearied. As they swung 
into the homestretch, Andy was still in the lead. We 
cheered him as he swept by us, and he nodded grimly. 

“Good boy!” Barry called. 

257 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


At the beginning of the second lap, several of the 
entries dropped back, realizing that they could not 
hope to continue the fast pace which Andy was setting. 
But Packard, of Woodbridge, hung grimly to the 
leader’s heels. 

“That’s the man Andy will have to beat,” Tom Bor¬ 
den said. 

But the Woodbridge man hung on, running easily, 
apparently tireless. Andy, his eyes shining, swept by 
us again. 

“He isn’t tired yet,” Budd told us. 

But there were still five laps to go, five heart-rending 
circuits of the track. Other runners dropped back, 
unable to hold the pace. But Andy kept on, and the 
Woodbridge entry remained but a stride behind him. 
At the end of the first mile, they were at least fifty 
yards in front of their nearest competitor. 

The stands cheered wildly, leaping to their feet as 
the two boys passed them on the sixth lap. Budd, 
trotting beside Andy at the rim of the track, called out 
encouragingly. 

“Keep it up! You’ve got him, old man!” 

Andy gave no sign of having heard. His face was 
lined now, as if in pain, and his lips were parted. 

“He’s getting tired!” Mildred Hartmore almost 
sobbed. 

“It will be a question of grit for the last two laps,” 
Budd muttered. 

Without faltering, Andy continued his even pace. 

258 




THE CUP 


The Woodbridge man, matching him stride for stride, 
gave no sign of weariness. The stands continued to 
cheer: 

Rah, rah, rah! 

Bow, wow-wow! 

Cranford ! 

On the back stretch, far across the field, the Wood- 
bridge man suddenly drew even with Andy. But 
Andy, refusing to relinquish his lead, fought on 
doggedly. After a moment, the other boy dropped 
back; and, with positions unchanged, they pounded up 
the home stretch. 

A gun sounded sharply. The last lap! 

“One more!” Budd bellowed through cupped hands. 
“One more, Andy!” 

As they rounded the first turn, we glimpsed the 
agony in Andy's face. But he did not falter. If he 
could only keep it up for another lap, we knew he 
would win. Just one more! 

“Look!” Barry cried. 

On the far turn, the Woodbridge entry was making 
his “bid.” With obvious effort, he drew even, fought 
his way into the lead. Andy, his arms swinging 
heavily, accepted the challenge. Side by side, they 
covered the next hundred yards. When they reached 
the third turn, they were still even. 

The thunder of the cheering stands drowned out 
all other sound. Beside ourselves with excitement, 
259 




BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


we crowded to the finish line, while the two runners 
rounded the last turn and began their desperate battle 
down the stretch. 

“Oh, Andy, Andy!” Barry sobbed. “Come on! 
Faster!” 

They were both staggering now. Andy’s lips were 
parted, and his jaws sagged. A shrill voice from the 
stands pierced the din which encompassed us. 

“Sprint!” 

Somehow, that voice must have penetrated the chaos 
of Andy’s mind. For suddenly, his fists clenched at 
his sides and he drove himself on to further effort. 
Ten yards from the finish, he was leading by a scant 
six inches. The tape stretched tautly before him. 
With superhuman effort he leaped forward, breaking 
it against his heaving chest. And then, his strength 
suddenly leaving him, he tumbled in a heap upon the 
track. 

But he had won—both for himself and for Cranford. 
He had won! 

Budd Smith was the first to reach him; and after a 
moment, Andy opened his eyes and smiled wanly. 

“Gee!” he said. 

Budd and Bill Woodruff supported him as he made 
his way back to the dressing room. A half hour later, 
when we gathered on the steps of the Woodbridge 
High School for our return trip, he was as well as 
ever. 

We filled the train with song on our homeward 
260 



THE CUP 


journey, of course; for the taste of victory was sweet, 
doubly so because we had won it squarely, and without 
question. When, finally, we climbed down upon the 
Cranford platform, Budd turned to us with shining 
eyes. 

“There’ll be a big mass meeting at the school at 
seven o’clock to-night,” he announced. “And we want 
everybody out.” 

Everybody came; even Bill Sanders was there, slip¬ 
ping quietly into one of the rear seats. And after we 
had sung and cheered for a time, Captain Budd, of the 
track team, rose to his feet. 

“One of the purposes of this meeting,” he declared, 
“is to award the cup which Mr. Albertson has offered 
for ‘that student of the high school who does the most 
for the Cranford team.’ ” 

We waited, then, for some one to suggest a name. 
But we all knew that Andy, and Andy alone, had been 
responsible for the victory. After a brief silence, 
Hugh Potter stood up. 

“I nominate Andy Kirk!” 

Some one started to clap, and the sound increased 
until the volume of it shook the rafters of the building. 

“Speech! Speech!” Barry called. 

Andy, who was chairman of the meeting, shuffled 
to the front of the platform, a signal for renewed 
cheering. He waited quietly, his face impassive, until 
the room was quiet again. 

“I—I appreciate the honor of being suggested for 
261 



BARRY THE UNDAUNTED 


the cup,” he said huskily, “but before you do anything 
about it, I want to say something.” 

“Go ahead!” some one called. “Talk all night if 
you want to, Andy.” 

“Track meets,” Andy continued earnestly, “are won 
by brains as well as by brawn. And this afternoon, if 
some one else hadn’t suggested it, I wouldn’t have gone 
in the two-mile, and Cranford wouldn’t have been hold¬ 
ing this celebration to-night. And it seems to me as 
if the cup belongs to that member of the team who 
kept her mind clear and did even more than I did—for 
the team.” 

“Who was it, anyhow?” 

“Barry Browning,” Andy answered quietly. 

For an instant there was deep silence, and then the 
cheering started anew. When it had died away, Andy 
held up his hand again; and this time, his chin was 
resolute. 

“What I did to-day in winning that two-mile,” he 
said steadily, “was in the way of atonement for some¬ 
thing else that I did a few weeks ago. Would you like 
to hear about it?” 

“Sure! Get it off your chest, Andy.” 

And then Andy Kirk did the bravest thing I have 
ever known. 

“In the vote for mayor at the school election,” he 
continued, “you may remember that I beat out Barry 
Browning by a single ballot.” He hesitated just for 
a moment, and his voice caught. “That ballot,” he 
262 




THE CUP 


concluded, “was cast by me. I voted for myself.” 

For a moment the silence of the vast auditorium 
was broken only by the ticking of a clock on one of 
the walls. And then, Barry stood up. 

“I move,” she said, “that we give a rising vote of 
confidence to our Mayor, Andy Kirk.” 

“Second the motion!” Budd Smith called huskily. 
“All up!” 

With much shuffling of feet, we rose in our places 
and grinned up into Andy’s tear-rimmed eyes. 

“And now,” Budd suggested, “a long yell for Andy 
Kirk!” 

When the cheer had finally died away, Andy looked 
down at us with shining eyes, and smiled his gratitude. 

“You’ve all been mighty fine about it,” he said, “and 
I’ll never forget what’s happened to-night.” His 
glance shifted to where a group of senior girls were 
sitting. “But,” he added quietly, “the cup goes to 
Barry.” 

For a few seconds, the students of the school re¬ 
garded one another doubtfully; and then, because we 
knew that Andy’s sincerity was beyond question or 
doubt, we voted the silver loving cup to Barry 
Browning. 

But it seemed to me that the honors of the day were 
just about even. 


THE END 


(I) 





























































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